Holy Names
by attica
Summary: His eyelids trembled closed and he saw specks of gold glittering like the sea at sundown inside the stirring darkness. He knew this feeling, ambiguous but strong. He was dying. Draco and Hermione. WIP.
1. Hero Boy Gone

**H O L Y N A M E S**

**Disclaimer:** Own Harry Potter? Not I.

**Summary: **Bedlam ensues! After a surprise attack in Hogsmeade, Harry runs away, Ron's comatose, and Hermione is determined to go on an adventure in hot pursuit to find the Death Eaters. A wary Dumbledore hands Draco Malfoy the obligation of protecting her… in return of a future. Starring: the Sacred Moon Tribe, wood nymphs, Voldemort's birthday, "True Love," and magical wounds, things will never be the same again.

**A/N:** I wrote this in complete disregard of _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_, and so: Dumbledore is still quite alive and well, Draco has not cried, there are no horcruxes, and Ginny is still nothing to Harry. Also, **not your ordinary Draco&Hermione fic**. So don't say I didn't warn you!

**Hero Boy Gone**

Fawkes was perched nearby, stoic and unmoving on his stand. The bird's beady opaque eyes were inky black stones in its flame of golden feathers. He was tense and so still that he looked as if he'd been petrified in time, save for the fact that his gaze moved all around the room from one head to another, flickering from brown eyes of agony to silver eyes of seriousness, then to a wrinkled, stern face of a once jovial man to an ashen face of an exhausted Potions professor.

"Miss Granger, it is of utmost importance that I ask you to stay here with the rest of your peers. I know that you are set on finding Mr. Potter, but for your safety and his, you must refrain from taking it to drastic measures – and dangerous soil. Such a thing could only make things worse."

"But, Headmaster, please—" objected Hermione.

Her words disintegrated into thin air, mid-sentence, as Albus Dumbledore gestured for her to stop speaking. His face was grim and grave, the deep-set lines of age on his withering features appearing much more definite and depressed than ever before. Woe lingered on his lips.

"Miss Granger," he said firmly. "I'm afraid you must do what I ask – no questions. Our time is waning."

"But how can I just sit here while Harry's out there all by himself? He hasn't even finished his eight weeks of training yet!" Hermione suddenly exploded, getting to her feet. Her brown eyes were creased with anger, her face aglow with vexation. "He's going to be _killed_! We _have_ to do something!"

The other occupants in the room: her Head of House, Minerva McGonagall, Draco Malfoy, and Severus Snape, all stared at her with wide eyes, startled at her enraged outburst. Their headmaster's once twinkling and joyful sapphire eyes descended into a stormy blue. His mouth was pressed into a tight, rigid line.

"You have to understand," she said, lowering her voice. Her tone was fierce but shaky. Her hands had balled into fists and were trembling violently at her sides. "I cannot just _sit_ here and act as if everything is normal while my best friend has run away to kill the Dark Lord _unprepared_, and-and my other best friend, Ron, still in the hospital from the attack during Hogsmeade because he tried to protect Harry with his life… and I, I should have been there, but I wasn't!" she said, the decibels she was giving out multiplying again, her eyes fiery but glazed with hurt and self-blame. Her intense agony made her quiver, infecting her limbs, her bones, her knees. "I've got to _do_ something, Headmaster! I can't let Harry fight him alone!"

"You must," he boomed, making their silent audience flinch in their seats. Hermione wasn't deterred by his threatening tone as she stood still and motionless, glaring at him. "You read the prophecy, Miss Granger. You cannot fight Voldemort with Mr. Potter. He has to fight him alone. And I'm certain Harry wouldn't allow you to, either. Please, calm down. I assure you that we are doing everything in our power to help and locate him in any way that we can. But there are a dozen places he could be headed for—"

"The Death Eaters!" said Hermione, her eyes wild. "He's after the Death Eaters! Surely you must know where they are! Harry's there – I know it!"

His eyes darkened. "Unfortunately, we do not know where the Death Eaters are hiding, and it will be some time before we do."

Hermione felt something inside her collapse and shatter into a million thousand pieces. She felt revolving confusion eat away at her brain, the intense pain inside her chest, the desperation and urgency for action pounding in her ears, in her wrists, in her legs. She needed to do something. Had to. She had not been raised to just wait for things to happen – she'd been raised to _make_ things happen. And if someone was holding back the concept of action, suspending her of the possibility of saving her best friend's life, then she was to break free from those same chains and go off on her own. Even if it meant disobeying the orders of a noble man.

Her eyes burned from the symptoms of oncoming tears. The rapid shrinking of her lungs had now affected her breathing, causing her breaths to surface clipped and ragged. She wanted to cry. She could feel the ache of suppressing the sobs that threatened to wreak havoc on her body, to rattle her bones, to melt away her wits. She felt so frighteningly small, so helpless and restricted.

Never in her life had she felt so infuriated by authority.

"I could never forgive myself if he dies," she whispered shakily, feeling the excruciating burn of her throat and lungs that made her want just to shrivel down into the ground and hold herself to try and convince herself that she was just reliving a very, very bad dream. "I could never forgive myself if he thinks that I'm not fighting."

She saw his dim, serious eyes soften behind the harsh glare of his half-moon spectacles.

"I assure you that no such thought would ever cross Mr. Potter's mind. And," he sighed heavily, Hermione feeling another heavy layer of frost ice the room, "as for your first statement… the same weight lies on our shoulders. On all of us."

Hermione felt a bigger, gaping defeat graze the surface of her tender, purple heart. This was torture. Her knees felt weak. Her muscles had lost their strength and now she felt as if she was as unstable as a nightly pub resident. There was a tart and hot growth in the back of her mouth that made her want to scream at the man sitting before her with such vindictive loudness – loudness that she knew she could never rub away from her thoughts and rage, no matter what she did or how much she tried to tell herself that their headmaster was right.

But he wasn't.

His words meant nothing. Everything meant nothing now. How could he spend this time trying to comfort her and give surety that everything was going to be fine? How could he when the time they needed was depleting faster and faster?

She was too angry to nod. Too angry to look him in the eye without the stars of ire smoldering brightly inside her own. Here she was, asking him just to grant her the permission to look for him on her own – she wasn't asking for any supplies, or even any back up! She wasn't even asking him to step out of the school. She was just asking for a chance to save her best friend, the Hero, and now: the Runaway.

"I apologize for our lack of preparation, Miss Granger," he told her. Regret shook his voice and guilt minimized it into the husky volume of a mouse. "But you must know that we are all in the same boat. The feeling is no stranger to any of us."

Hermione looked down, her tangled mess of curls attempting to hide her crumpled face as she couldn't help but feel the fever of her body start to escalate. Through her toes, through her legs and hips, through her ribs and escalating to her heart, the blood-pumping organ, and now it was working five times as hard, rushing her blood through her veins so fast that she felt lightheaded and blotches of colors danced inside her unfocused and blurry vision. Her limbs pulsed with numbness; her muscles tensed so hard that she could feel it slowly consume her bones.

She felt a soft hand on her shoulder, gently squeezing for reassurance that now ceased to exist. Hermione knew that it was her Head of House, Minerva McGonagall.

"Please do accept my deepest and most sincere apologies… and I know that you want to help Mr. Potter, but please reconsider your actions. Sometimes what we think will help only ends up increasing our loss." He turned his steady gaze to the elderly woman behind her. "Professor, could you please escort Miss Granger back to her quarters?"

"Absolutely, Albus," she nodded as she quietly and fragilely led Hermione out of the room, talking in soothing tones and rubbing her shoulder.

"Severus," he said as the Potions professor met his eyes. "Remus arrived shortly after you were summoned here. He and the other members of the Order are waiting in the hospital wing. Join them, please, be of any assistance if you can, and tell them I will be there momentarily. That is all."

The professor, entirely draped in midnight robes, nodded and stealthily made his way out of his office, leaving his student alone with the headmaster. The door firmly closed behind him.

"As for you, Mr. Malfoy," he said calmly, regarding him in a serious but polite manner. "You are a prefect, are you not?"

"I am," Draco replied, before hesitantly adding, "sir."

Dumbledore nodded, looking at him intently. He had a contemplative expression on his face that made Draco uneasy.

"You are well-acquainted with this castle – do you know where the Gryffindors remain?"

Draco looked at him perplexedly, confused at why he was asking him such a question. However, clever bloke that he was, there was a knot of dread firmly forming in the midst of his stomach. He had the faintest idea of why this question had been brought up, an assumption, but he hoped insistently that he was wrong.

Draco nodded uncertainly, but immediately regretted it as he caught that twinkle in Dumbledore's azure eyes.

"Very well then. I am now going to appoint to you a duty, and for Miss Granger's and all of our sakes, including yours, I will be looking to you to fulfill it. It is important that all of us stick together in these troubling and trying times to prevent anything else from becoming disarray. I will need your full cooperation, Mr. Malfoy."

He swallowed hard, looking straight into his headmaster's dark but ambitious eyes. He felt the bind in his stomach tug forcefully, but he simply tried to ignore it and said nothing.

"I will be needing you to keep an eye on Miss Granger."

Draco opened his mouth to object, but Dumbledore sternly continued, leaving no room for any of Draco's immediate objections.

"I may be absent for a little while to try to get a lead to where the Death Eaters are hiding, as well as to make sure the Ministry does not catch on at the happenings here at Hogwarts to alarm the public. I know that though Miss Granger is a very respectful and wonderful young woman, when an unfortunate occasion such as this occurs, her loyalty to her friends is enough reason for her to step over and breach instructions – even though it may be out of her usual daily routine.

"Now, I am not fully certain that she will try to escape from Hogwarts to find Mr. Potter, but it is likely she will. This is where your help is required. You must, above anything else, keep a close eye on her. And if she does, in fact, venture out, you must accompany her."

The look on Draco's face was one of disbelief, bother and puzzlement. His headmaster's words hadn't added up to him at all.

"Me looking after loony Granger?" he said incredulously, not believing what he had just heard. "Certainly there's someone else out there better suited for the job!" he exclaimed. Him _protecting_ her? He'd wanted to _hex_ her! "Granger and I aren't necessarily fond of each other," (_quite the opposite, actually_, he thought), "and I know that she would not, under any circumstance, allow me to follow her if she _was_ to pursue her little joke of an adventure."

And neither would he.

Dumbledore shook his head and Draco felt his annoyance start to trickle out across the ivory plains of his face.

"Certainly, Mr. Malfoy, if you merely show to her that your intentions are pure, she would permit you to. Miss Granger could not be so cold."

Draco scowled. He wanted to shout at him, make him understand that there was no way he was going to handle and follow an emotionally imbalanced and psychologically unsteady Hermione Granger. Did he ever care to ponder that there were times when Hermione Granger, Hogwart's Very Annoying Golden Girl, was not so holy or golden at all? Quite the contrary, really. He had been the victim of her vicious rage one too many times and he didn't care to reenact any of those moments at all. She was worse than those hardnosed, bloodthirsty banshees that Lucius had once religiously bred in their dungeons.

She had a quick mouth, biting wit, a poisonous tongue like a lasso whip – they would kill each other, and then whom would that benefit?

In an effort to get himself out of his "obligation" and "debt to their school" (his stint as a Junior Death Eater had gained him a permanent place in the doghouse until the time came to so-called "prove himself") and make Dumbledore see – more specifically – from his shoes, he spoke the blunt, hardcore truth.

"I'm afraid you've got it all wrong," said Draco, a bit of his natural venom flicking from his tongue. "She thinks I'm the one who tipped off the attack in Hogsmeade – which you see, will clearly cause a few problems. And with all due respect, sir, she's a stubborn girl and I don't think—"

"With all due respect, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore interrupted, "I agree with you on her stubbornness, which is an admirable trait and at times inconvenient, but although it seems that she has already made up her mind about you, it is not too late to change it. It is never too late, Mr. Malfoy. The difficulty is whether you are willing to put in some effort to do so."

Draco began to grit his teeth. He hated it when they spoke in all of their wise age and elderly rubbish of riddles and morals. He glowered very irately at the old man sitting before him, who was unflinching to his physical clues of aggravation.

Draco was clenching and unclenching his fists on his lap in a consistent, routinely manner. His veins bulged out from his forearms, his knuckles white.

"My quarters are much too far to constantly run back and forth to Gryffindor Tower. Why not give the job to a Gryffindor, one in her house? It would be much easier that way." He tried to sound convincing.

Dumbledore shook his head. "I am afraid that cannot be. It has been decided that you are the best candidate for this duty."

Disturbed, Draco raised one of his blond brows. "By who?" he asked, suspicious and curious at who he had to hex from behind and give a serious beat-down to.

"Why, by Professor Snape and myself. Your Head of House speaks highly of you and believes with an impressive amount of confidence that you will be able to carry it out perfectly."

Draco was silent, clamping his jaw together and gnashing his teeth.

So it was Snape who had single-handedly prodded him to his doom.

Dumbledore continued on. His voice was husky and low, his eyes peering expectedly at Draco through his spectacles. "And, might I say, Mr. Malfoy, if you fulfill this task, it will guarantee you a future."

Draco's entire body tensed. He looked up to meet his eyes and felt a chill creep down his spine and then explode into supernova of violent shivers that made him shudder both outwardly and inwardly.

He knew exactly what he meant. A future. Something that he was without if he didn't agree.

A new, profound swell of bitterness rooted inside him, stretching to the very depths of his black and cursed soul.

"What about it, then, Mr. Malfoy?" asked Dumbledore, though Draco already knew that it was not intended to be a question at all. He knew that he could not refuse his orders and he knew that his headmaster knew it just as well.

"If it is required of me, then it is done," Draco said stiffly, trying not to seethe. _Even if it's as painful as hell_, he scornfully added on inside his head.

He had a terrible feeling that he had just done something that further certified his death, and glared at the floor while he wished that they had sent Granger off to St. Mungo's when they had first had the chance.

Dumbledore smiled. "Very well, then. I am counting on you, Mr. Malfoy. Do make us proud."

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Classes resumed even without Potter and even with the knowledge that the Dark Lord was now closer than ever before.

For Care of Magical Creatures, their group had ventured out by the Forbidden Forest and each of his peers had squished together in tight knit groups, each sporting squared shoulders and anxiety-wreaked eyes that darted from every tree, every branch, and every bush that shook in the breeze.

As the dithering giant, Hagrid the Hogwarts Hazard, stuttered and rambled on and even nervously stumbled out into unrelated topics every now and then, Draco, standing with his posse of scowling and brazen Slytherins, was watching the only bushy head in the crowd. Now that he looked upon it, the sight felt strange to be witnessing. She was alone, isolated. Their peers stood more than a foot away from her, creating a bubble of physical space around her. They hadn't spoken a word to her all morning. She hadn't gone down to breakfast. And Granger, once jovial and spunky and insufferable in every way (just like Gryffindors were specially made), hadn't even moved from her spot. She was motionless and still like a perfect statuette. Her back was straight, her dainty chin angled up, her eyes to the front. And nothing had changed about her for the last hour.

With his gaze steady on her, he only realized how peculiar it was. Looking at her without spotting that unruly head of Potter, and then that trademark ginger fuzz of Weasley. She was always sandwiched in the middle, as if they had wanted to keep her protected from everyone else even though Draco knew that the positioning of the trio was never based on feeling, or protectiveness. Because the trio was just the trio – famed, hated, liked. At the end of the day, they were just three Gryffindors with a knack for doing annoyingly righteous and dangerous deeds and angering Dark people with Dark powers.

But she was alone. It was so apparent that it seemed shocking. There was a gap all around her, like she had some sort of terrible disease that everyone knew about and nobody wanted to contract – like they had set her off into a secluded island. As if she was some sort of leper. Were it indifferent circumstances it would have undoubtedly brought a smirk to Draco's face, but he could not help but look on with a sour taste in his mouth, knowing that things had definitely changed. There were two spots beside her, one for Potter, one for Weasley, as if she was expecting them to drop by any time soon and stand next to her like they always did.

His gray eyes held a knife-like sharpness to them: from the harsh glare, the icy touch of the metal to the razor-sharp edge, his lips pressed into an expression birthed from a glower and a serious look mashed together.

He could see the stiffness of her posture, the way her shoulders were eternally taut and unyielding as if she was bound to a chair. He could sense her anticipation and determination a mile away. It was all around her – her aura was glowing with fire, her eyes were those of a warrior out on the battlefront, and she did not waste time to answer any questions that the excuse of a giant attempted to ask.

Because Draco knew that she had somewhere to go after their last class.

One look at her, and he had known what she was going to do. And that she was going to do it soon. Today. When she thought no one was watching.

Unfortunately for Draco, he was to be the one to break it to her that she had thought wrong.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Dumbledore looked up to see someone standing in front of his desk. She seemed taller than usual – her heels gave her height, her pointed hat made her seem older than she really was. Even when, from his view, it seemed to be drooping from worn age. He then made a mental note to purchase her a new one from Madam Malkin's on her birthday. He knew she had a fetish for pointed hats like no one else. It had even been so when she was younger.

Her lips were pursed. She raised her hand silently to seize her hat and lowered her arms, the dense light making her topknot shine. The lines entrenched beside her mouth, scarred on her forehead, the crow's feet alongside her eyes were deeper and darker. Even her face had seemed to dull into a pasty color in the last twenty-four hours. But Albus understood. Ill luck had that effect on people sometimes. It could wither even the youngest, strongest being in the world. He knew so because he'd seen it happen right before his eyes every time a Dark Mark was found floating ominously and menacingly in the dark, star-speckled sky.

No one could age gracefully while Voldemort was still out playing cat and mouse. It was a concreted fact.

"Minerva, my dear old friend," he greeted her. "Are your students not treating you well?"

"My students aren't well. But can you blame them?" she twittered nervously. "How do you think they are going to feel when you announce you are stepping off the school grounds? You've seen them, Albus. They're using the buddy system. They can't go anywhere alone. They're deathly—"

"Afraid," Dumbledore finished off for her, nodding. "I understand, Minerva. I do, more than anything else. But my leave is necessary; I ask you to trust me on this."

"But Albus, do you think it is wise to leave at such a time like this? With Potter missing and you stepping even one foot out of Hogwarts, let alone two—"

"Minerva," said Dumbledore. "It is my duty as headmaster of this school to attend. Attendance is mandatory. If I do not go… they will suspect something. And we do not want to send off a red siren to the Ministry or the media. Merlin knows they're not a quiet lot." He stayed silent. "Besides, I rather think everything will be just fine. Doom is quite overrated."

McGonagall looked disbelieving and incredulous.

"Overrated?" she echoed. "Doom-doom is-is not—" she began to wildly stammer, looking like she couldn't quite digest what he had just said.

"Due to contrary belief, it is," he firmly said to her. "You don't have to believe me, but over time you will. You and I, Minerva – we've seen a lot. More than we could have ever dreamed. The making of a murderer, the making of a hero. We've seen dark days, the darkest days, and days that would make even Argus feel contented to be alive. I know there isn't much hope anymore, but the one thing that helps me on my feet is the idea that I will live to see it end and live to see the happier times begin. Sometimes just trying to believe something everyone holds great doubt for is the push we need to defeat anything. Even doom."

The other professor in the room looked mortified, confused, and as if he had just been talking in another completely different language the whole time.

"Albus, please—"

"Eat something," he advised her. "Skipping meals during these circumstances will devastate you. You're going to need your energy."

Mouth still open, her brows furrowed before she nodded, clasping her lips together again.

"I do hope you consider what I said."

"I will." Her voice was raspy.

"I will be trusting you to keep things orderly when I am away. You are an old friend, Minerva. I hold no worry that you will handle things wonderfully."

And then stiffly, robotically, she turned to leave his room. Her deep emerald robes made a faint noise like a spring waft through velvet as she walked to his door.

"Oh, and Minerva?"

She stopped. She looked over her shoulder. "Yes?"

"If Miss Granger and Mr. Malfoy do not appear at their classes over the next few weeks, excuse their absences. I've entrusted a task to Mr. Malfoy, and Miss Granger… well, let's just say she, too, strongly believes doom is not what will come to be."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Slipping through the back doors, a pair of silver eyes discretely scanned the green and lush area. The Forbidden Forest was looming, the skies were fairly overcast with the exception of a few rays of grateful sunlight flashing through every now and then. But it appeared God seemed to be especially chary with the sunshine today, perhaps to let the current state of their lives reflect upon their surroundings or to try and clue them in that sunshine was indeed going to be rare the next few months.

There was the occasional breeze that still lingered with a trace of their harsh winter that would normally make one shake in one's boots despite the early arrival of a flowery spring, but refreshed Draco, who had always had a liking for coldness and frigid things. He assumed it was a trait he had inherited from both his father and mother – his father a dastardly being with an iceberg as a heart, and his mother a beautiful ice queen whose fingers were intricately toughed with magic, turning everything she touched into perfect crystalline ice that glittered like diamonds and stayed perfectly cold even in the presence of heat. Except she had never touched Draco. Yet somehow he still suffered from the same affects of her icicle-forming fingertips.

He felt his robes billow behind him as a strong wind swept by. It softly rustled and licked his ankles, his sharp eyes looking hard and determinedly across the grounds.

Draco froze in place, catching a dark blur rush by at the corner of his eye. He quickly turned around to see a head of thick curls disappear behind Hagrid's hut. Draco, an air of curiosity and duty about him, walked over to where he had last seen her.

He crept around, silent like a feline positioning to pounce on its prey, watching her as she dropped off a bulky bag of things behind his rutty, shanty excuse of a house.

"Granger."

He was leaning against the wall, sneering.

Hermione looked up and slightly flinched, stopping in her step, before puffing out her chest and tilting up her chin, trying to look valiant and bold. He saw anger darken her brown orbs and her brows moved downwards at him in a threatening manner.

Hermione tightly gripped her wand. "Malfoy," she said. There was a substantial amount of edginess to her voice.

"I wonder what it is you're doing here without Pothead and Weasel, hmm?"

Her spine stiffened. A glimmer of rage glittered in her eyes. "I wonder if you know you're going to get hexed if you don't get out of my way."

"Oh, drop the act, Granger," he scoffed. "You aren't nearly as strong as you make yourself out to be. You're like a puffer fish. You're really sickly and skinny in nature, but when you're threatened you blow up like Crabbe and Goyle on roast beef Fridays."

Suddenly, he found something to be rather pointy stabbing into the flesh of his neck. She had a fierce look on her face. Almost murderous.

Her face was so close to his that the next thing he knew, he was looking straight into her unblinking lioness eyes, her rampant breaths grazing his face.

"Get out of the way," she hissed. "Or you can be certain I'll make you."

"You certainly talk tough for your size, don't you?"

"This is all your doing," she ranted, heated. "You're the one who tipped them off, weren't you? You _told_ them Harry and Ron would be—"

"I'd check your sources if I were you," he retaliated, annoyed by her subjective finger pointing. "Because it just happens to be that they're liars."

Draco then realized that it hurt to talk when the point of her wand was digging right into his throat. He felt his chest burn with annoyance.

"_You're_ the liar," she growled. "Dumbledore thinks you're just a sheep in wolf's clothing, but I happen to know you're just a snake in the grass."

"Don't get all fancy on me, Granger," he snarled. "And, if you haven't cared to notice, you've been wrong before—"

"If Harry's killed and the Dark Lord—"

"Now, I thought you Gryffindors were optimists."

"Shut up!" she roared, deepening her wand into his throat until Draco almost winched. It felt as if she was going to dislodge something if she pushed it in any further. He could already almost feel a bruise forming right where she was stabbing him with the sharp point.

"You get out of my way."

"You're out of luck, Granger," he spat at her. "I know what you're going to do. You Gryffindors just can't ever refuse the chance to be heroes, can you?" he scoffed. "Predictable. Your sickening gallantry is going to get you killed one day."

"And your bigotry is going to get _you_ killed," she snapped. "So just step away before I am no longer able to hold in the urge to violently blast you away."

"No."

Just then, instead of hexing him like she had warned, like he expected her to, her eyes darkening like an oncoming and promising squall, she withdrew her wand and instead pushed him very, very hard. So hard that he lost his balance and fell backwards onto the grass. Startled, he blinked up at her for a second, feeling the blades of the lawn beneath him prickling his wrists and fingers, catching one last glimpse at her scowling down at him with her hands on her waist, her wand protruding from her right hand, before she turned on her heel and hurried away.

Draco, quickly gathering up his wits, gathered himself and scrambled up, angrily staring at her retreating back as she left.

"You're leaving tonight," Draco called out to her. "And I'm going to be right here waiting for you, whether you like it or not."

She froze. Then she whirled around, her thick tresses catching the wind and making her seem as if she was a very angry lion ravaged in a melting Safari breeze. "And what makes you think I'm going to let you?"

"Because, if you haven't noticed, Beaver, you need me," he told her, giving her a smug look. "There's a million places the Death Eaters could be hiding out and you'd only be guessing if you were on your own. You'd never find them even if time weren't an issue. You need me. Because at least I have an idea and I know just how their minds work."

She was silent. Her nostrils flared as her eyes shot him the equivalent of death glares. Wisps of her brown curls fluttered about her face, looking ruffled and disoriented. She was tightly gripping her wand – and if Draco looked closely, very closely, he could almost see her trembling against the intricate backdrop of Hogwart's ancient castle.

"You on your own," he continued, "you have a negative surplus chance of survival. But with me…" he smirked. "Well, I can guarantee you it'll up your chances a bit." He then sighed, looking bored. "It's a live Potter or a dead one, Granger," he told her. "Your choice."

In response, she sent him the most furious of looks, looking as if she was to hex him again – but she didn't. Instead she rapidly turned around again, swiftly walking back to the doors with such incensed and fierce momentum, each step shaking her frame, her hair bouncing against her neck and tangling up into another one of Mother Nature's occasional breezes.

And then she raised her hand and showed him a Muggle gesture without turning around, one that he was quite familiar with. One that looked like a peace sign, minus one finger.

Draco glared ahead, watching her strutting figure, her midnight robes sashaying across her hips and shoulders on her fairly petite form, watching as she became smaller and smaller, vague and indistinct, until she disappeared behind the big black doors.

Moments later, after cursing at Dumbledore and his sudden up-surging need to have an un-doomed future, he followed suit, mentally preparing himself for an excursion with the last insufferable Mudblood on earth he would ever want to spend time with, let alone travel with through deserted, sinful places alone and try to help. Even protect.

The thought alone made quivers crawl up his skin.

He shuddered, feeling a rising gust kiss his cheeks.

Even Draco knew he normally would have had to have at least twenty-eight drinks to agree to something as nutty as that. But then he figured that a school obligation and a strict order from their headmaster was a crateful of vodka all on its own.

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	2. More Adventurous

**More Adventurous**

Draco packed hastily, throwing only few necessities into a small carrier, looking up at the clock; uncertain by the guesswork he had to make of when she was to leave. He had figured that she was to make her escape during dinner when everyone was preoccupied with everything, but now he thought that maybe she would do something unthinkable like march right out into broad daylight to abscond from him after their fiery confrontation.

Granger was clever, she was. But he knew that she had very few resources in the outside world, especially when it came to possibly getting help to locate the Death Eaters and her runaway Potter. She didn't know where to look – yes, she could very well attempt to convince herself that she knew what she was doing and act as if she did, but it would all just be ineffectual. Trying didn't matter. Effort proved futile. When it came down to it, it was either one succeeded or one failed. Effort would not save a soul.

If Draco knew anything, Draco certainly knew that.

Tapping the point of his wand on his leather pack, he shrunk it down and stuffed it into his pocket, muttering to himself. He grabbed his cloak and hurried out, ignoring the Slytherins sitting in the common room that bothered to pester him with their Neanderthal questions, and Pansy who'd sniped at his heel after whining about the sudden availability of the spot of her bedtime partner because he'd told her to go fix herself like a male dog would at the vet.

Feeling slimy creeps snake up his body, he shook his head and tried to tune out his housemate's high-pitched whimpering.

"Pansy, shut it," he commanded without turning around as she followed him out the common room. Draco walked faster, but he could hear her skidding heels behind him, grasping at his cloak and his arm, pawing and clawing and cooing and sniveling.

Draco's eyebrows unknowingly drew downward on his forehead with annoyance. She was slowing him down! He had somewhere to get to, damn it!

Just then, fed up with her shrill pleads, he sharply turned around and she bumped straight into him, ricocheting off his firm chest and clumsily trying to steady herself.

"Draco," she purred, batting her lashes at him. She played with a lock of her hair, wetting her lips with the tip of her pink tongue, blind to the impatient scowl Draco was shooting her. "Won't you tell me where you're going?"

She inched closer to him, tracing her finger down his chest, fingering his emerald and silver tie. She made sure to press her body up against his, letting out a low moan.

Draco, disgusted, looked at her down through his nose. "If you tell me how you can be so revoltingly shrew-like."

And then she threw her head back and laughed; her cackles sounding like the wails of a dying cat's, pretending as if Draco was only joking and poking fun and not actually very serious.

"Oh, you're so funny," she said. "And I think funny lads deserve a nice, big treat." She licked her lips again; her eyes gaining a wanting luster.

Draco pushed her off of him, his scowl deepening. "I've got somewhere to be. Go entertain _yourself_." He clutched his wand tightly.

He turned around again, walking down the corridor.

"But-b-but, Draco…" simpered Pansy.

"I said, _fuck off_!" he shouted, his temper not up for any petting today.

Pouting, Pansy sent him a spiteful look before turning around and heading back to the Slytherin commons.

Still glowering as if he'd suddenly grown too big for his britches, he headed towards the back doors of Hogwarts. Passing inquiring and whispering portraits, galloping poltergeists, and flailing suits of armor, he ignored everything and kept his mind on getting to Granger.

He could have even sworn he'd seen Dumbledore lurking by in the corner of his eye, smiling at him in his insufferably jolly way, whispering that word that had nudged him along to take on the arduous and daring task.

Future.

It wasn't that he needed one. He just wanted one. Wanted to step out of the school a free man, wanted to live in a Lucius Malfoy-free world, wanted to build his own Malfoy legacy, wanted to live off his own riches. Wanted to see his mother smile again just like in her illusionary youth. He wanted to see Potter live to fall right on his face, wanted to see the Holy Trio turn on each other once they found out that they each had sexual organs and discovered what glasses of alcohol would do if they drank together, fogging up their natural birthed morals. The same morals that Draco had been born to spit at and condemn.

There were more things. He wanted to see Hogwarts close, and maybe – if he was lucky – get torn down, Voldemort the Mudblood get defeated so Draco would stop uncharacteristically flinching every time someone uttered his name – his _real_ name. Now that seemed foolish, and it was. But now Voldemort was out to get him too. After exposing his plans to make Draco his heir to Dumbledore by mistake, Dumbledore had foiled his plans and then Voldemort unmistakably knew of Draco's deception.

That day, in Hogsmeade, the Death Eaters had attacked. It was true. They killed three people, and they hadn't even had a single drop of Muggle blood in them. But they weren't out to kill Potter, or even his little friend the Weasel. They had been out to kill _him_. Him. Draco Malfoy. Voldemort's former would-be, supposed-to-be heir to the Dark throne. The pure-blood traitor.

And it just so happened that Weasley and Potter had been there as well, had jumped to conclusions (once again thinking that everything had to revolve around them), and started shooting spells at them like it was free gift with purchase day. Really, if Gryffindors weren't so bigheaded, nothing would have happened.

Well, except that Draco would be dead by now.

But in exchange for Draco's life, Weasley was now in a coma. Which Draco found was a rather fair deal. The fool was breathing, wasn't he? He wouldn't die. He'd probably wake up in three days. Gryffindors had a knack of escaping death at the last impeccable minute, especially Granger, Potter, and Weasley. Draco would have understood very well if Death was getting particularly antsy on getting his skeletal hands on them by now.

So, in a nutshell: Draco was a good guy now. By mistake.

But it offered him protection he could not turn down, and that produced him a little amount of sleep at night, in the least. It was true now that the Malfoy name had been irreparably tainted, and their reputation had been soiled and he would never find a possible way for them to be respected and prestigious again, but even after grueling hours and days of trying to calculate a way to perhaps undo such humiliating dishonor, he had come up with absolutely nothing. Draco was now a pin-up on Voldemort's Most Wanted list. Right after the trio. That made him a marked man.

And that was how he figured he'd had nothing to lose. Yes, it took a little mouthful out of his dignity and pride, but at least he wasn't going with Granger on her little heroic excursion because he wanted to, or that he sincerely hoped that Potter hadn't been roasted alive by the Death Eaters by now and had been subjected to possible rape, torture, or cannibalism. He didn't care about Granger; he hated her loyalty for her friends and wished it would toil in hell for what it was making him do now.

Who knew what was waiting for them out there? If they would lose an eye or a limb? Or what would happen to them if they were caught venturing alone? Had Voldemort gathered new allies he didn't know about? They had to be extra careful. More than extra careful. Painfully careful.

He finally reached the back doors. Taking a quick glance around to make sure that no one was witnessing this, his scan proving there were no animate watchers to betray him, he pressed against the bulky door, feeling the cool metal pressing past his clothes and into his skin, and slipped through the narrow crevice before it made a soundless thud when it slowly swung back in place.

Feeling the cold air sting his cheeks and filter through his robes and hair, he rapidly walked across the emerald grounds of Hogwarts, feeling the softness of the land underneath his feet. He walked towards the Forbidden Forest, looking around, warily searching for a figure with chaotic, unkempt hair.

Stopping when he reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the overcast sky dim with rolling clouds and the heavy imminence of night, he stopped and looked around.

Inhaling the crisp, frosty air, he came to the conclusion that she had went on without him. He had checked all around Hagrid's ramshackle shelter and had even went on inside the Forbidden Forest hissing out her name in hopes of luring her out of wherever she could possibly be.

After ten minutes of acting like a search party, his calling of her name had eased over into endless cursing and swearing. His eyes glistened like rain-splattered knives, his face fashioning a look that could have scared a ghost away into the Other Side. He was furious.

How could she have left without him? She needed his help. It was guaranteed to be futile meandering if she went alone! And Draco _needed_ that future!

He glared overhead.

Great. Granger had stolen a vast part of his dignity and now she was stealing away his future, too.

She was going to get killed. How could she be so _stupid_? It was a well-known fact that females had no sense of direction, most especially one that was like Granger, and she was going to – well, did it even matter if she was killed? She _deserved_ to be killed! Deserting him, stealing away his possibility of a future, if she was going to be so cruel then he was glad she was walking right into a bloody Especially-Made-For-Hardheaded-Gryffindors trap.

He only hoped that Voldemort would torture her first.

His mouth continued to unleash generations and generations of foul, crude language.

"You don't want to do that."

It was a familiar, sour voice. One full of stern and arrogant knowing.

Someone stepped out from behind him, wearing a cotton jumper that was colored the exact same hint of pink as her cheeks. Her chaotic hair had been pulled back by an elastic band, but little wisps swayed along to the wind. She was holding a leather knapsack behind one of her shoulders, giving him a stern look that made it clear that she wanted him to know that she wasn't doing this because she wanted to – but because she _needed_ to.

"You're going to need the full capability of your lungs."

Draco only gave her that same glower that had trickled out into his pale face, but felt a little swell inside his chest that hinted to him that he was grateful she wasn't as stupid as he had thought.

She gave him a clear warning through her earth-colored eyes. They were determined and she made certain to assure him that she knew well how to fight. Both mentally and physically. Her threatening gaze practically told him the same story: _Cross me, and you'll die._

Draco sent her a reciprocating look through his mercury eyes, the silver looking like the reflection of the stormy gray clouds closely hovering above them.

"We need to get going," she informed him, taking a quick glimpse at the sky. "It's nearing into the night and they're going to notice our absences soon enough. Come on." She walked past him to the Forbidden Forest. He followed after her, giving one last glance to their school and the flame-lights in the narrow windows, and he could have sworn he could have heard laughter from the castle, but a great gust came and roared in his ears and swept the sound away.

He caught up to her, only a few paces behind. The distance between them was deliberate. That way, if something came out and jumped at them with a jaw full of razor-sharp teeth, it would eat Granger first and grant him a chance to get away.

They traveled deeper into the forest, and Draco was surprised that she actually knew what she was doing. That is, until she stopped.

Draco stopped behind her, suddenly wondering how it had gotten so dark already without him noticing. The sky was a deeper gray, one that churned with the shadows and made the easy ascent into black.

She seemed uncertain to go on as he watched her look at him through the corner of her eye.

"Keep going," he drawled. "Two miles deeper."

He walked to her side, and he found the look on her face to be skeptical. From the absence of light, her features were shrouded with shade. She was looking at him, doubtful and vindictive.

"And you've chosen now to be doubtful," drawled Draco, already feeling irritated. "Do you want to get out of this forest or not?"

She started walking again. She walked as if she was angry with her feet, moving quickly but exerting much force. "You can't blame me," she snapped. "How do I know I'm not being led into some trap?"

"Because you know as well as I do that if we go two miles deeper into this place we'll be able to Apparate. So just stop griping and shut up, because you're not being led into some trap."

"And where are we to Apparate from there, would you mind telling me?" she huffed.

"Do you want me to bloody draw you a picture? Just keep walking."

"Malfoy, I need to know," she said, raising her voice.

Her angry voice echoed. They both froze.

A twig snapped in the distance.

Something chirped. Something crowed. Something rustled.

Something growled.

Or was that just the wind?

"I told you to shut up!" Draco hissed. "Keep walking." He harshly pushed her forwards, sending her to stumble but she straightened herself and started to walk again. "Keep walking, Granger. And don't say a word or else you can be sure I'll gag you with my shoe."

She then mumbled something about sticking her own shoe up somewhere, too.

When the two miles were over, Draco and Hermione had cleverly chosen to rely on their wands for their _Lumos_ light. It did little to light the way, only revealing about a yard of their covered path, but they knew not to make too much light for it would attract unwanted attention.

Draco looked up as he thought he had heard whistling. The trees seemed bigger, more menacing. Their branches appeared to be crouching down, reaching down towards him with their wooden limbs, eerie yellow eyes glowing forebodingly in the dark, creaking, moaning…

He looked away and he felt his feet step uncoordinatedly on the forest floor, feeling his head succumb into a deep, earth-whirling dizziness for a minute. He clutched his head and steadied himself, widely blinking his eyes. The surrounding blackness zeroed in on him, suddenly scraping chills into his skin, loudening the haunting whispers of the careless, refreshing drafts that passed…

He blinked. Hard.

Darkness.

Had he gone blind?

"Malfoy?"

Then he heard footsteps. Soft footsteps, the dry leaves cracking almost so quietly underneath her feet.

Then a bobbing of light came floating to him. Behind it, he was secretly relieved to see, was the face of a worried but anxious Gryffindor.

He let out a rickety sigh, but fixed up his face to make him seem completely undisturbed. He straightened his posture.

"What happened?" she asked. There was a semblance of unmistakable concern that guided her voice to his ears, but he easily overlooked it as he saw her anxiousness with this whole mission unmistakably shine brighter than the light she had conjured.

"I… I think I dropped my wand."

She pursed her lips, nodding, and then she pointed her light towards the floor.

Draco bent his head down, looking for his wand. It was quite difficult when there was no natural, wide-reaching light and the ground was covered with all things brown – leaves, twigs, tree branches, dirt – but Granger made it easy for him.

After picking up two wooden pieces that had just turned out to be parts of a tree branch, he found his wand, and, wiping it off on his robes, ignited a light from his own.

And then they had no choice but to continue with their journey.

It seemed that two miles had been a big miscalculation (which Granger had bothered to vocally point out to him with an impatient scoff). They were nearing their third mile into the place without rest, and the trees had not cleared, nor had they seen a tree stump that indicated a secret loophole through Hogwart's Anti-Apparating charms set all around the grounds. His legs were beginning to get tired and his stomach, remembering that he hadn't had a single bite of food since lunch, began to gurgle and restlessly squirm about.

They took a two-minute break, settling on a fallen log. Draco sat all the way on the right edge of the log and Granger occupied the left. They didn't both to utter a word to each other. The atmosphere was tense, and though they still loathed each other with a vengeance and squabbled with no rest, it seemed that the notion that they were going to travel with each other – all alone – hadn't begun to sink in yet. Instead, they opted to ignore each other as if the other wasn't truly there, somehow thinking that if they did this for as long as they could, it would somehow magically turn out to be true. They could step over the terrible awkwardness of their circumstance if they were set on making it seem as if they themselves were completely indifferent and deaf-blind to the situation.

But Draco knew that soon that was going to be the hard part.

When the two minutes were up, Hermione silently got up and brushed herself off. Then there was an "Oh" that slipped from her mouth, looking as if she had just remembered something, and then reached into her jumper pocket, taking out something rolled in a piece of table napkin. She tossed it over to him, and Draco jumped, unsuspecting and alarmed, as it landed on his lap.

"I ran by the kitchens. I brought it for Fang but he was asleep, so I'm giving it to you. Eat it. You look hungry," she said coldly, shrugging her shoulders, before stepping over the log and walking on.

Draco glared at her back, her figure soon blurring away into the dim environment, hating the tone of her voice as if he was undeserving of anything at all – as if he was more lowly than her, a Mudblood. He held the parcel in his hands, feeling a comforting heat radiating towards his palms and a rousing aroma started to waft around him, making his mouth start to water and his stomach give out a great big kick that tied his throat into a dry knot.

He unrolled the napkin and found a perfectly good dinner roll inside it. His stomach then started to riot, shouting, screaming for the food, for anything to calm his rampaging hunger.

But he scowled as he rolled it back up again, ignoring his body's violent protests as he did so. He stood up, hurrying after her with his wand in his hand and the wrapped dinner roll in the other.

_Giving me food meant for a beast out of pity_, he snarled mentally, _I'll show that little Mudblood._

He ran to lessen the distance between them, his wand trembling in front of him as his furious steps crossed the pathway. Then, getting the sense that she was quite near even though he still could not see her, he raised his arm and threw it furiously and blindly in front of him, hearing the _crack_ of his arm as he did so.

Draco heard it whiz through the night air, and didn't have to wait long for the response he was anticipating.

Not a second later, he heard a loud grunt followed by a "_Malfoy_!" cutting through the darkness.

And Draco, no longer so threatened by loud noises in the dark, only smirked triumphantly, proclaiming a silent victory.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Draco curiously looked onwards as he noticed a haze of unmoving light ahead. As he got closer, he saw that it was Granger. Apparently, she had found the tree stump – their loophole out of this dreaded forest.

Begrudging and still irritated with him, she made certain he knew so by accidentally tripping him.

Once.

Twice.

Then a third time.

All in a six-minute period.

"Granger!" he snarled.

"That's what you get, you insufferable bastard." The glow of her light made her skin seem so pale, like the flawless skin of a porcelain doll. He could make out the faint and fading freckles dotting the bridge of her nose and very softly on her cheeks as her eyes narrowed at him. But her lips were pulled upwards into a mischievous smirk, one that made Draco growl.

"What comes around goes around," she then managed to inform him haughtily, looking like she had just been announced queen of the sodding world.

Draco, immensely annoyed with her attitude, then walked over to where she was sitting, and Hermione, unknowing, was brutally shoved off the tree stump and fell down to the flaked and leafy forest floor with a solid thud followed by some splitting twigs and fracturing dried out leaves.

He looked down on her smugly, now smirking. Her eyes were squinted shut with pain, her face creased with a laughable expression and dirt and pieces of bark and wood adorning her hair like a grubby Christmas tree.

He laughed at her. "What goes around comes around," he mocked her. "That's what _you_ get, you little—"

And then her eyes opened, blazing.

Draco didn't get to finish his sentence because it was then she pulled him down with her.

Draco fell, letting out a stifled sound of pain as he felt brushwood stabbing into his back.

"—Mudblood," he grunted.

"You git," he heard her say.

Then they froze as they realized that they were now in complete darkness. Whole, complete, utter darkness. They were staring right above them, where only a handful of speckles of glitter as stars scattered across the midnight sky and an eyelash of the moon carved silver into the heavens.

But besides nature's little miracles, they could not see a thing.

"The light—" Hermione croaked.

"What happened—" Draco started. But the frightening reality of their stupidity swallowed up the rest of their words.

They stayed immobile for a moment, as if paralyzed, before jolting up, their bodies jumping up on their feet, their knees scraping against the ground as they groped the floor for their wands.

"This is all your fault!" he heard her say. "If only you hadn't—"

"You're the one who tripped me, Bushbrain!"

"You're the one who threw the dinner roll at me!"

"Because you provoked me!"

"Oh, when we find our wands—"

"…A dueling match, Granger, and I will kick your—"

"Ow!"

There was silence.

"Did you just bite me?" she whispered shrilly.

There was silence again.

"Oh. That was you. But maybe _Fang_ bit you, hmm? You obviously care enough about the blithering beast to bring him a sodding—"

"_A-hah!"_

And then with a bright flash, there was light. She was pointing it right at his chest.

Draco could see her. Parts of tree branches and leaves were still fastened in her bush of hair, most of her tresses having eluded her elastic band, and there was a smudge of coarse dirt on her cheek. Her eyes were shining like newly made Galleons caught in firelight.

Draco shoved her arm away from him. "Point that thing somewhere else and help me look for my bloody wand," he ordered impatiently.

Hermione scoffed. "Why should I?"

"Because we're only wasting time," snapped Draco. "You're the one who cares for saving Potter – me, I wouldn't give a rat's arse whether he lives or dies."

Draco patted down the ground, getting frustrated as he couldn't find his wand. He hoped profusely that he hadn't lost it. If he did, then he was as good as dead.

Then, she spoke. Her voice was hard and angry, like a raging punch in the gut. He could even hear it quivering, like a loose balancing beam, rusty and creaky from ages of reckless use, and in a second, it was made all the more obvious what her weakness was. It would have been more surprising if Draco hadn't already known.

"Don't say that."

Suddenly, a warm gust flew by. Draco felt it lick his arms, caress his sullied fingers, his bare neck. It pocketed in his lungs.

Draco was bored with this conversation, feeling the dirt cake underneath his fingernails. He could feel her intensity all around them, as if her essence had plagued and overtaken the entire wood. He decided to remain as impassive as he felt. "Don't say what?"

"He _has_ to live, don't you understand?" she whispered, and suddenly he could feel her breaths against his neck. It was rapid and hard, as if she was suppressing sobs deep underneath her chest. He had struck a major chord – and just not any chord, at that. A breaking chord, a chord that was thinning and thinning out until it finally breached its limits and broke, splitting apart. A chord that had triggered this little heroic, repulsively righteous adventure in the first place. Inside his icebox of a body, something unfamiliar began to pool, making him shudder.

She continued to breathe, and the puffs of warm air slathering, soaking against his neck made his skin crawl. The heat from her mouth grew like a cancerous tumor, spreading through his head, his face, his chest, his torso, his hips, his legs, his toes. His skin began to tingle as if he'd just placed frozen needles all over his body.

"Nobody wants to live in a place where the Dark Lord prevails," she said, solemnly and firmly, "no one, not even you. His followers will perish under his own hands. He won't have anyone be the best with him, don't you understand? Whether you'll ever swallow down your pride to just admit it, whether you'll ever realize it for your own good, we need Harry. We _need_ Harry to defeat him. Or else we're all doomed. All of us. Even you pure-bloods."

His heart tightened, clenching, following suit of his fists. Suddenly, he found the smooth handle of his wand and he straightened up, sneering. He was surprised that he was out of breath, but felt as if his lungs had just been compactly squeezed by an impenetrable force and even his knees felt a bit unsteady. He felt bitter, frigid hatred cluster up at the hollow of his throat, rousing like an ice storm to conquer the strange coils of heat she had just conjured within him.

"Don't lecture me," Draco told her through gritted teeth. "Maybe your two little friends could put up with it, but I sure as hell won't, do you understand, Granger?"

Their lights were shining in each other's faces, illuminating each of their features, each of their emotions, each of the dark flecks in their eyes that glowed like embers from a fire. Crickets sang. Owls hooted. The winds blew.

They looked at each other.

And then, somehow, from the sudden glaze that had covered her eyes for the quickest second of fleeting time, she knew what he knew. He was frightened. He was frightened just like the rest of them.

Her face softened, but hardened back up again.

Draco was grateful for that. If there was anything else he hated more than Potter, her, Weasley, and Voldemort, it was pity. Especially when it was meant for him.

"Fine." Her voice was quiet, but her fiery and strong-willed gaze spoke everything her mouth couldn't. She took a step back, keeping her hawk eyes connected with his before looking away. She looked down beside her and tapped the toe of one of her trainers on the stump. "It's late. We're going to need to Apparate now. Just tell me where."

Draco, recovering from their tense moment, found that he couldn't relax just yet. His shoulders were stiff, his face content with his scowl. He felt a thunderous booming in his ears, shaking every muscle and nerve, even reverberating through his rushing bloodstream.

He didn't know if hated her even worse now or if he had had just a somewhat civil – albeit angry – moment of understanding with her a few seconds ago.

He didn't think to even consider the second idea.

She was looking at him expectedly. Her arms were crossed now, anxiously tapping one slender finger. Even though Draco couldn't hear her doing so, the exact same rhythm was bashing his head outside in.

"I can't."

She blanched. "What?"

"I can't tell you where," he clarified. "You wouldn't know where it is. Besides, you need to visualize it. And you've never been there before."

"How would you know?"

"Because I do," he said. "Only big bad wizards take their business trips there."

She narrowed her eyes at him, her brows meeting in the middle of her forehead, her lips thinning.

Draco sighed, throwing his head back. "Look, do you want to get there or not? It's bloody late. There's an inn just a quarter of a mile from there and we can stay there for the night."

"How do I know you're not just lying to me?"

Draco clenched his jaw. He was getting absolutely sick of her questions.

"Because I would have killed you by now if I was," he snapped, reaching the end of his temper, "does that make you feel better? Now just get over here." He took a big step and then stepped onto the stump, scooting towards the edge to give her some room to step on. "We're going to side-along Apparate."

"Like hell we are!" she sputtered. "You're probably going to well leave my left arm behind or my foot or-or – my _head_!"

"Only in my dreams, Granger. I'm _skilled_ in Apparating. It's a natural gift. Now, if you get over here now and just cooperate and stop running your mouth, maybe I'll let you keep all of your fingers and limbs."

"I can Apparate!" she insisted. "I can Apparate just fine on my own, thanks!"

"And where are you going to end up? Not any closer to your lover boy, I'll bet!"

"He is _not_ my lover boy!"

"That's just smashing!" Draco shouted at her. "But frankly, I still don't give a damn, so just step on here so we can get on our way! Or I'll leave without you! Don't think I won't do it!"

Draco was breathing hard. He wanted to ask her, furiously, why she had to be so insufferable. Because he really did want to know. Was it really something people were born with, like mental disabilities?

Because it was driving _him_ mental!

She was silent, looking quite cross. "Fine," she said frigidly. "But I'll kill you even with one arm, I promise you that."

Stiffly, she stepped up on the stump, feeling odd as she pointed her wand towards the ground and the light only illuminated their feet and not much else.

"You need to come closer, Granger."

"Fine." She scooted closer.

"Closer."

She scooted to him like he was a diseased man.

By then, Draco was getting very, very irritated. "Do you not comprehend the word 'closer'?" he snarled. "_Closer_!" And then he grabbed her waist and pulled her to him, her body crashing against his. Draco kept his feet firmly on the stump, unfazed by the sudden movement. He felt her warm and soft body collide against his side, feeling shockwaves ripple throughout him for a moment at the unexpected feeling. She was surprisingly very warm, and being a naturally cold person, heat… did things to him. Foreign things that he didn't finger ever getting used to.

She squirmed, gasping beside him, but he clutched her hip firmly so that it pressed tightly against his leg.

"Malfoy!" she choked out. "What are you—"

But as Draco closed his eyes, a blur of distinct cold memory and past feelings bound to the morose scenery he was to visualize, feeling a trickling chilly sensation ooze down his back. Dead trees, charred remains of things that had once been alive. A desolate dirt road. Withering weeds and grass. An old, looming manor in the distance…

Suddenly, he felt as if he was being sucked into a hole in time. His feet dangled, and he was still clutching her to him as steadfastly as he could but her complaints had now died into the roaring wind. A swirl of color surrounded him, dulling down into grays and blacks, then brightening into an unsuspected burst of light.

And with a _crack!_, they were gone.


	3. Granger's Cherubim Blues

**A/N:** After Draco and Hermione rest for the night, Hermione gives him some tonic, they are back to squabbling to break the ice, and they get to their first Death Eater headquarters! Plus, some handholding!

**Chapter Three: Granger's Cherubim Blues**

They stayed in an inn. _Gertrude's Tavern_, it said in elegant and lean letters that swayed against the cheery walls and tinkled every few minutes. It had extensive history as a dingy old pub, but the great-great-great-grandchildren had thought it better to take part in a more productive business, and so they stowed away all the alcohol and Ogden's Old Firewhisky in the back bar, sobered up all of their poltergeists and trained them to become useful doormen.

It had many floors, towering like an antique manor built to shelter generations and generations of the original owner's children and grandchildren, and over time it had begun to tilt over to the side, similar to the Tower of Pisa except far worse. The paint was flaked and worn, and the white had yellowed into a rustic brown and an upsetting yellow-green. But there were pyxie bushes that had been planted in the front lawn, some newly pruned rosebushes, a cracked and beheaded stone statue of a cherubim angel whose head was nested by its feet and nestled by a ring of massive sunburst daisies the size of her extended hand. It had broken shutters that were rusty with age and neglect and were only hanging on by its tarnished rivets, and prehistoric hinges on doors that creaked as loudly as a banshee screaming.

But inside there was floral wallpaper that eased the eyes, a friendly receptionist and a just-as-friendly fire sound in the hearth. Despite its dilapidated appearance, there was apparent effort in making it seem traditionally beautiful. The flowers, the statue, the wooden benches. The area around it had been gloomily barren and desolate: just a dirt road, a few boulders, and the cloudless abundant sky that seemed to have fallen down on their side of the world. There had been ashes scattered across the ground, but besides the wind carrying it off into its current like seeds to plant, there had been no motion.

It had been obvious to Hermione that they had just wanted to create some beauty in such a miserable place. The ghosts, the workers, who had all smiled so big… It was a metaphor. Those roses were a metaphor; the rose bushes were a metaphor. They wanted to show that beauty could still exist in a terrible place. They wanted to show that hope could still exist in a terrible time. Hope.

By the time they had finally dragged themselves through the pebbled path and into their welcoming doors, they were exhausted. They paid not much mind to the differently themed rooms, or even the silver-haired ladies looking at them peculiarly and roguishly until they announced that they would be needing two separate rooms. The man only nodded, understanding, still smiling his grateful smile, and they paid on their own.

But they didn't search for any suspicious characters – only headed up to the direction of their rooms, seeking a soft bed and a place they could rest from their sore and tired feet. Where they could snuggle deeply in their covers and pretend that they were back at Hogwarts with the rest of their peers and not only just with each other – Malfoy and Granger – before they woke in the morning to see it hurtfully untrue.

They didn't speak a word to each other as they wearily trudged up the stairs, which seemed to be dangerously tilting underneath their feet, but they made it to their rooms before their drowsiness and fatigue conquered them, walking in, heading towards their beds in blind longing and comfort, and lying down. They fell asleep the moment their heads had descended on their magically fluffed pillows.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Draco was awakened by the painful wails of his stomach. He felt it clenching and wrestling inside him as he squinted his eyes closed, hard. His head felt heavy as if he had just been forcefully dosed with a vast amount of drugs, his limbs uncooperative and heavy, feeling like someone had transfigured them into blocks of lead overnight. But as he fussed and hoarsely grumbled in his warm bed, relishing the drink of rest and sleep he had finally been able to sink his mouth into, his intense hunger and the wary spasms in his torso caused his eyes to open and motivated him to follow that heavenly scent of potato stew and freshly baked bread.

It was still early. He didn't even think light had broken yet.

Tangled in his sheets, still clad in his filthy clothes from the night before, he got up, groaning as he felt the stiffness of his body vocally disagreeing with his movements. His muscles were sore and his eyes felt as dry as two raisins that had been left too long in the sun. He had to choke out a sketchy breath as he sat up, grimacing as he cursed under his breath.

He walked as best he could to the loo attached to his room, half limping and half dragging himself, wishing he had brought some tonic to ease the painful tenderness of his body. He undressed himself with great difficulty, finding a rocket of hot, sweltering pain that shot through his shoulders and back as he had tried to clumsily shrug off his Oxford shirt.

After a few minutes, still feeling the violent and sadistic pains of his body, he stepped into the shower and let out a long sigh of relief as he felt the warm water pelt his sore body, massaging his aching muscles, soothing his nerves, but wincing as he had to reach to scrub himself clean – he did not favor the stench of dewy dirt and loam permanently rubbed into his body. He washed himself vigorously, trying to rid himself of that wretched night.

After drying himself and dressing in fresh clothes he had packed into his carrier that he had magically enlarged again, he slowly walked out of his room and relied on his nose and the screams of food gurgling from his stomach. It led him to its location like a bloodhound to a fresh hunt.

He only had to descend the stairs and walk through the long hallway of doors to find the supper room. He felt something warm and antsy blanket his innards as his eyes suddenly began to obtain a sheen of want and deep starvation. He quickly sat down and ordered everything that his stomach jumped at just from its mouthwatering words typed across the menu, along with some of the freshly baked bread and the potato stew as well.

Draco was just finishing up his third bowl of potato stew and had just ordered some more of the roasted duck when he found someone plopping down on the seat in front of him.

He looked up and found the reason of his body's pain.

"Malfoy," she acknowledged him, looking fresh out of the shower with her hair hanging down to the broad of her shoulders in damp, dark curls. Her eyes gleamed with a greater determination than the day before that almost made Draco lose his appetite. But the thing that disturbed him the most, the thing that almost made him hesitate in taking that next spoonful of absolutely heavenly soup, was the smell she had brought in with her the moment she had taken a seat at his table.

It had swept along to him like a strong draft, pouncing at him, tangling his senses together in an amorphous mist, jumbling up all his thoughts and confusing his stomach that had given out a massive somersault when it had intricately weaved into the skein of his brain.

It was flowery and fragrant, even with a bit of soft citrus and divine warm vanilla thrown in there. It was an odd mix, and one wouldn't think it would smell wonderful at all, but it made Draco freeze in his spot for a quick and dazedly rickety moment, staring down at his soup, his silver mop of hair reflecting off the golden surface of the broth.

He quickly composed himself, shaking away the blissful scent from his mind and getting back to how hungry and famished he was.

It was easy.

"Granger, go away," he barked at her. "I'm eating."

"I noticed," she said bitterly, looking at all of the bowls and plates piled up around him. "Looking at all this, you'd think you were a starving, spoilt pig." Her mouth dropped open, slanting her head to the side. "Wait – you _are_!"

"I'm rich enough – I'll spit some of this in your face until you and your gruesome appearance does what I tell you: _Go away_."

She scowled at him, crossing her arms against her Muggle sweater. It was colored a rich royal blue that unknowingly emphasized her chestnut eyes and hair. "I just wanted to tell you that we're leaving in twenty minutes. Pack up your things and meet me in the front. And, here," she said, preoccupying herself with her bag and fishing something out. Draco was watching her with a bored expression on his face.

"Hurry up, Granger. The faster you leave the faster I can start to eat without wanting to throw up again."

The look on her face tightened, and Draco reveled in the way he could annoy her so easily. He almost even thought that maybe she wasn't as used to it by now as he had thought.

"Here," she then said, slamming a bottle down in front of him, making his plates and bowl shake and his silverware clatter against the delicately decorated porcelain. She was glaring at him, and even the freckles sprinkled across her face seemed to be angry with him. "It's tonic. My body was sore this morning and, kind person that I am, I thought you would need it too. Now if only you could clean out your mouth to make some room to drink it."

Standing up in a huff, her chair loudly complaining against the wooden floor, she gave him one last look with her slit-like eyes and turned, walking away.

Later, Draco begrudgingly took a full swig of her tonic, and then some.

A cold blast stormed across his skull first, causing him to close his eyes and resignedly lean against the back of his chair, feeling it then heavily but rapidly stream down to the rest of his sore body. It cascaded down to his tired and weighty bones, his throbbing muscles, cured the drowsiness that afflicted him like the Black Plague. It flooded through him, making even the tips of his very fingers strongly tingle, and clouded up inside his chest until Draco had to hold his breath from the overwhelming feeling, finally letting it out when the sensation subsided and had only left him with a few shivers of remembrance.

He opened his eyes, letting his hazy gaze settle on the bottle sitting in front of him, silently thanking it and even silently thanking Granger, for even thinking of saying such a preposterous thing aloud was highly unlikely for a man of his standards and rank.

Deciding that he'd already had his fill for the morning, he left his money and the customary tip on the table, standing up and taking joy in the fact that his legs were no longer crippled over by blistering cramps.

Ignoring the ladies who had been ogling him instead of doing point, needle and thread in hand but only looking over him in awe and nostalgia of all the dandy lads during their formative days, he went up the stairs, his face once again hardening at the fact that he and Granger were to raid one of their headquarters today.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Just like she'd told him to, he met her out in the front in less than twenty minutes. She was already there, sitting at one of the wooden benches with the metal vines elaborately coiled on either side. She'd been staring ahead to the dismal emptiness in front of them, completely barren and sterile that it seemed completely alien. As if they were just looking into a photograph of a land that harbored completely nothing but loneliness.

And as Draco couldn't help but observe her, curious at how she could just sit there and think, and think, and think, and never tire of it (especially when it came to promisingly depressing objects that always pointed towards a cruel and chary, stormy future), he came to think that maybe there was more to her than he had thought. That maybe there was a darker side that couldn't help but entertain such ideas as doomed futures and war and the fall of Harry Potter, were it to be that he would be the one to fail and not the Dark Lord.

Now that he thought about it, this inn was now as incongruent to the rest of this abundant and empty land as it could ever be. For miles and miles there was nothing else: just dirt, just the road, just a few piles of ashes here or there if the gusts hadn't managed to blow it away just yet. It was forlorn and miserable. It was an extraordinary feat, a miracle that this inn was even standing, that the gardeners could even plant sunburst daisies or rosebushes or pyxies. Because Draco had known for a very long time – had even felt it the moment he had stepped onto this place when he was ten – that he was standing on cursed soil.

But then maybe God wasn't as tightfisted with his miracles as he had thought. Albeit the outward and physical appearance of the place, what with its slanted slope that now seemed as if it was leaning closer to the right than it had been last night, the horrible paint job that hadn't been bothered to add on a second coat… it was still standing, wasn't it? It was durable. It had endured long before the Dark days had begun, and Draco wondered if it would endure the days when the Dark days would end and the Light days would begin, should it ever come to that.

The sky was overcast on this side of the wizarding world. The clouds were clustered together so firmly and heavily that it left no room for even the littlest beam of light to elude through. It wasn't a new sight. The skies had blurred together like a soggy painting; slap dashes of black, strokes of gray, even a few dabbing sweeps of purple to add a little more color. But color was rare here. Everything dulled into grays or blacks (and rarely any white) over time. People had lost their taste for such things in these ominous times, thinking that whatever nature could bring; whatever anyone could bring was as good as dead, anyway. That's why it had surprised Draco to see the colorful yard of the inn.

But maybe it was true. Maybe they were all as good as dead. But if that was a fact, then what was he doing with Granger?

"We'd better get going," he gruffly told her, breaking free from his thoughts. They left a mildew-like feeling on and underneath his skin, like moist cobwebs that stubbornly clung on for an eternity in turn of a bad scar, and he didn't find he favored the disturbing sensation the least bit.

She jumped. Then she turned around, her eyes softening from relief when she saw him, but the moment passed quickly. She swiftly turned her head, her curls flying across her face and getting to her feet as if the wood had burned her, but Draco only watched her, knowing for certain that he had seen her eyes a gentle pink around the edges when she had looked at him.

He walked towards her and then past, leading the way, stepping off of the merry, nugget-lined path of Gertrude's hopeful little Tavern, Draco feeling a weighing feeling deep inside his gut that this would be the last time they would be glimpsing back at the headless cherub angel and the rosebushes that oddly – as Draco glanced at them one last time from the corner of his eye – already seemed to be withering.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

They walked the road. This time the landscape wasn't as empty, proving so as they encountered more dingy houses piled upon the miles and miles that stretched both crossways and ahead. The soil hadn't changed underneath the soles of their feet – still the same loose, dead dust that had seemed to had been there for ages that it had faded away into a hoary color, no longer the vibrant and natural deep brown color of the earth.

It was odd to Hermione. It was as if this place remained completely void of color or life, save for the happy inn they had left miles back. The shanty houses were a charred black as if it had been burned and the ashes had held their place in the air to create only the illusion of a house. They saw no people. Crows crossing their paths every now and then, yes, but even they had flown away once they'd gotten a taste of its lifeless selection.

Draco and Hermione continued to play their game. Quiet, silent, not even looking at each other. Just pretending as if the other wasn't there at all, like they were alone with merely themselves – how they wished to be yet how they weren't.

But Draco soon noticed the glances she threw at him when she thought he wasn't looking. Analyzing looks, curious looks, resentful looks…. every look he had ever encountered in his life. And he felt awkward when she finally looked at him for a much longer period of time, taking advantage of the fact that he was trying to act as if she didn't exist. Because, after all, the action had been mutual until she had decided to gawk and look at him as if she was trying to treat herself with a challenging Arithmancy problem.

Fed up with her stares, stalwartly unsure of what she meant by them, he finally turned his head and met her eyes. Instead of looking away and acting flustered like he expected her to do, she only stared back at him. Her face appeared neutral, neither angry nor pleasant, but just as if she'd accepted their circumstance, as unlucky as it was.

Her eyes did, however, dim when their eyes interconnected.

"I thought we were keen on ignoring each other," said Draco, making it obvious that he wasn't very appreciative with her stalling glances. "It'd worked very well – why stop now?"

"Because then we'd just be prolonging our stupidity," she answered. "It can't work this way, and you know that as well as I do. We're going to be together, traveling, going to evil places, encountering evil people, most possibly committing a few acts of crime…"

"And your point is?"

"My point is that maybe, just maybe, this could all be a little easier."

"You're right. This would all be easier if you would have just left sodding Potter alone and let him carry on with his laughably heroic missions _alone_ – without his fanatical stalker best friend bent on intentional suicide whilst pursuing him."

An angry glint glittered in her eye, but she kept a straight face. Draco knew she wasn't going to give him the pleasure of sparking her temper again.

"I didn't ask you to come," she told him. "It was your choice. Why you were so pushing to come, I most certainly haven't a clue and I haven't even _bothered_ to ask you out of kindness and the betraying feeling of a possible trust developing—"

"Between _us_?" he asked. "Tut, tut, tut," he said, shaking his head. "You certainly are funny. You have that Bambi sort of humor. Naïve and outdated." Then his face tightened. "And you'd gladly stay out of my business if you want to get to Potter in time and keep your skin. You don't want your tour guide to prod you in the wrong way, now, would you?"

"I was counting on your threats, Malfoy," she answered. "And I'm not the least bit fazed. You're just a little boy with some coins, a massive head, and an overactive imagination. I've been taught to squish boys like you."

"With what? That dead bush on your head that you call hair?" he retorted. "Because that's the only substance on you Gryffindors – your bad hairstyles."

"I'm not stupid, you know," she said, ignoring him. "You must've come because you wanted to help – that, or you wanted to surprise Voldemort with a visit from the son of the dead Death Eater who spent half his life following the nose-less bastard. Dumbledore said you were on our side, but I see now that you've just tricked him like the wily bastard that you are—"

"I'm not on anybody's side," he snapped. "I don't care what that balding coot says – I'm perfectly neutral. Away from joy-hugging, innocence-jubilating people like you, and away from sadistic madmen who want world power. I'm on my _own_ side."

She snorted, giving him a disdainful look. "There's no _third_ side. Only good and evil. Being in the middle you're guaranteed a painful death. You have to compromise yourself to keep your life, or else they'll castrate you just for their twisted fun."

"Who? The Death Eaters?"

"No. Us."

Draco looked at her. She was serious but a mischievous smirk played across her otherwise gentle features when she knew he was looking her way. "You're clinically disturbed, Granger. You certain you didn't bring tonic for that, too? Could be serious." He looked ahead again. "Wouldn't want you to die from membrane imbalance before we even get there," he said, though his tone was hopeful and he was childishly crossing his fingers.

Hermione scoffed. "As unlikely as you eating dirt."

Draco sneered. "Then maybe it's not as unlikely as you think." Hermione's eyebrows shot up. He sighed, looking begrudgingly at her. "We're both going to be eating dirt on this trip, Granger. Whether you like it or not."

"That's no problem for me, your Highness," she sarcastically dragged out. "You're the one who eats fresh caviar and chugs dragon fluid with your pinky out," she mocked.

"Right," retaliated Draco, "I forgot – you wouldn't have any problem with it at all because you're a Mudblood! You were _raised_ eating dirt!" Draco knew it sounded undeniably juvenile – the sort of thing he'd have said in first year or second year – but when an individual fought with such a spectacle as Hermione Granger, who argued day and night like she was on limitless amounts of steroids, one cannot even think about the words before they rocketed fresh from the fiery furnace. Wit wasn't the ability to think of witty things quickly – it was the ability to say witty things without even thinking.

But, taking the bait, a deep scowl penetrated through her mockery as she narrowed her chestnut eyes at him. Draco only smirked back at her, relishing the way she loudly huffed when she looked away, infuriated just by the mere sight of him.

And thus, the Ignorant Act was broken and Draco and Hermione had single-handedly breached through the barriers of their tense situations to wring each other's throat.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

An hour of walking later, Hermione began to complain. She was usually a friendly one with patience in such cases that weren't legally named Ronald Weasley or Draco Malfoy, but all they'd seen was the open, gloomy sky, road, ash houses, more road, dirt, more dirt, more ash houses… where exactly were they going? She'd asked, but Malfoy only snubbed her and told her in his insufferable superior drawl that she would find out. That had been over half an hour ago. And now he was really starting to tweak her frizzing nerves, refusing to answer her inquiring and important questions, only to angrily backlash at her with crude insults when she got frustrated and started calling him names or spewing out unsophisticated threats of hexing him.

"We've been walking for an hour," she repeated to him again, her voice nippy. She glared ahead to the scene before them – the same scene she had seen over and over again that she could have painted it if someone handed her a canvas and some colors. The gray dust powdered her trainers and lingered on her soft skin, making her feel strange tingles and shivers.

"I know how long we've been walking, Granger," he snapped, very unappreciative of her reminders. "It's only been twenty minutes since you hadn't failed to shout at me that we'd been walking for forty minutes. Stop complaining because _you_ were the one eager on acting like your own missionary to spread the Gospel of Potter, not me."

"How far do we still have to go?" she asked him. "Answer me that, at least!" she said, throwing her hands, frustrated and silently asking why he got annoyed every time she questioned him. "This place is completely barren!" she said aloud, as if that small but governing detail of their atmosphere hadn't already crossed his mind more than he would have liked.

"We have fifteen more miles to go, all right?" he snapped. "Are you happy now? Or should we really wander back to that topic of gagging you?"

Hermione's mouth fell open, Draco noticing as her lips formed a perfect O. "_Fifteen_ miles? You must be joking! Tell me you're joking!"

"Do you _see_ me laughing?" he bitterly told her.

"This was the _closest_ you could take us?" she asked skeptically.

"I wouldn't be taking that tone with me if I were you," snapped Draco. "You were the one snipping about not having enough time to take my hair gel with me – do you really think we have enough time to listen to you scrutinize every sodding detail?"

"Well, then," she said crossly, tightly linking her arms in front of her chest. "Maybe we should have borrowed a broom or something…?"

"Are you dense? Do you _want_ your frizzy head to get spotted? We're going on these fifteen miles by foot."

"_How_ could we be spotted?" she asked him incredulously. "There's no one here! There hasn't been for the last ten miles!"

"Don't linger on the small details," he barked at her. "You never know with these places. One day they're lurking with Voldemort supporters and Death Eaters running amok like some party social sponsored by Lucifer, the next they cleaned up the hiding place for some of the wizarding world's biggest fugitives. Don't get too comfortable with appearances. That wouldn't be a very clever thing to do."

"Hiding place?" she asked. "The… Gertrude's Tavern? But it's so—"

"Pleasant," he finished off for her. "I'm supposing Voldemort hasn't paid that place a visit since then. It's always that way – merry, dandy – before he comes along and kills everything and everyone. Then someone righteous comes and the slow reconstruction of something repeatedly killed begins again."

Her brows drew down into a dubious and troubled position again. "How do you know all this?"

He only glared at her. "Just believe me when I tell you these fifteen miles are a complete bitch."

She scoffed. "Oh, I believe you."

After their fifteen miles, a town started to construct ahead in their view like a miracle. Except this was a ramshackle miracle, filthy and polluted by rats and malicious civilians, their windows fogged up by their sinful lives, their streets advertising something un-shy of evil deeds and evil doings. Flat complexes and buildings were a deep imperishable black, and Hermione didn't know whether it had just been painted so or the surfaces had just been devoured by fire. Traces of blood spotted the dirt lanes, and Hermione, gazing upon them as she attempted to step over them or beside them, felt ominous shivers ripple through her skin. This place was infested by bandits who smiled toothily at her, gums decayed and rotting, and she had jumped when an elderly woman without an eye had cackled beside her.

This place was definitely giving her bad vibes.

"Keep your cool, Granger," Draco mumbled quietly to her as they turned a street corner and a moaning face of a scaly man with no legs had tried to grab her ankle. "I told you you wouldn't want to know where we were going."

"A simple warning would have sufficed," she whispered back at him, before Draco, looking behind him and around to see if anyone was looking, grabbed her hand and pulled her into a gaping dark alley. Hermione, shocked at the fact he was risking physical contact with her, tried to jerk her hand away as a reflex that her mind had yearly strengthened for she knew that Draco Malfoy would never touch her except to somehow harm her, but he held her hand firmly in his, her fingers compacting against each other in his palm. His grip was tight and firm. Most of all, she was surprised that he was actually warm.

It had never occurred to her that Draco Malfoy could generate body heat just like everyone else.

"Malfoy—" she urgently whispered as he dragged her faster through the alleyway. Hermione heard puddles splash underneath her feet and soak through the leg of her trousers, but her nose was then filled with the stink of something horrendously foul. She felt a few scurrying rats scamper across her feet and she had to clench her jaw to avoid from letting that warm, dizzying wave of nausea call up her breakfast. She felt something warm and tart arise from the back of her throat.

"Shhh!" he hushed her without looking back. "We need to do this fast, Granger."

Hermione stiffly obliged his orders, scrunching up her face as the odor of dead corpses became stronger, stinging her lungs and almost making it unbearable for her to breathe. She felt the aggressive signals of her body that informed her the repeated internal punch depressed in her gut was nothing other than queasiness.

As they kept walking, she saw an unlit passageway ahead. The air around them was cursed with a stinging, skin-puncturing iciness that was coated with the stench of rotting carcasses, body fluids and something else that she couldn't quite place and had no particular wish to. She felt Draco's hand tighten on hers and she looked down, alarmed, feeling his sense of danger that rocketed through her rigid spine and sent her heart to hammer against her ribs.

His hand easily devoured hers with his long fingers and massive palm and no matter how much she knew that he was a proclaimed middle man, instantly telling her that he would undoubtedly betray one side for the other, she felt a tingle of protection and security as he held her hand. Revulsion was not as much laid down as a backdrop, but with the knowledge that they could possibly be killed or captured any moment now, there wasn't enough room in her mind or heart to be revolted by his touch. They were a team. Whether it tickled their fancies or not.

"Stay close," he ordered, and Hermione did as he said. She was holding her wand in her right hand, feeling her fingernails bite into the delicate casing of her palm, sure to leave crescent-shaped indentions later on. "Get ready."

They slowed into a quick stop as they reached a small statue. It was made out of stone, discolored and chipped, but its two glaring eyes were as alive as they themselves were. Draco seemed to hesitate for a moment, looking at it with calculating eyes then to a spot in the floor, then his head jerked up and he glanced to the side where another narrow passage waited. "Come on," she heard him say, before he dragged her, running quietly, leaving the roaring lion statuette behind.

They ran through the side, the thick and inky darkness now fully enveloping them, before Draco lit a light from his wand and Hermione followed suit. It was empty but she could see ashes everywhere as it blanketed the stone floor and made a supple compressing sound against their soles as they ran. They reached the end of a corridor where they had to decide between three corridors. Hermione, her eyes suspiciously and warily darting all around them followed by her wand, was then dragged to the left passage.

"What—" she breathed, before he cut her off, pulling her along.

"There's another way. The back way my father taught me," he answered as if he had been skimming through all of the fearful thoughts swimming frantically in her head all along. "If we go through here we could get in without them knowing and catch them off-guard."

Hermione only nodded before he whished them off into another pathway.

"Stairs," he alerted Hermione, and she succeeded in avoiding stumbling as she pointed her wand down to guide her steps. She noticed that blood lined the side of her trainers, dripping down to the stairway surface as she ran, and she gasped. Their feet made a subdued and dense sound on the stone.

After the lengthy flight of stairs, Hermione already feeling out of breath and sweat trickling from her brow, they stopped before a door. It was a wooden door, threatening and silhouetted with something deeper and darker than the shadows. There was no doorknob but as she heard Draco whisper something, something she was certain she had never heard before, a hissing sound was heard. It echoed through her body, booming off every stitch of her clothes, reverberating off the cold walls. It clanged against her skull. Then there was something else… something quiet but disturbing… something like millions of scaly bodies slithering all at once.

Hermione's eyes widened as suddenly millions of snakes were sliding across the surface of the door. They were all animate and alive, hissing, yawning evilly to bear their elongated fangs glistening with acidic venom. They were black and their encrusted bodies moved fluidly everywhere, masking the wooden door, slimy and shining with a wet substance that burned her eyes and clogged her throat.

Just then, Draco reached out his hand, grasping a snake by the throat. Hermione gasped, wide-eyed, as he pulled it close to him, ripping it off from the door, watching as the snake writhed violently in his grasp, its mouth open and hissing, its forked tongue shooting out and his razor-sharp teeth dangerously close to his face. But there was something in its mouth; something shiny and small, as Draco constricted his hand around it even more, making the serpent's eyes bulge with blood. Then he let go of Hermione's hand, her arm going slack and swinging back to her side in shock, as he reached into the snake's mouth and pulled something out of it: a key.

He let go of the snake as it fell down to his feet. There was a sizzling noise as it reached the dirt, and Hermione watched as the snake's body fizzed and a trail of dark smoke started to arise from it, its long body bubbling and appearing to become consumed by an invisible presence. With a final sizzle as it sunk deeper into the ground, it was gone.

The air smelled strongly of burning tar.

He held the key in his hand and neared it to the door, where soon the snakes departed and revealed a keyhole. He precisely fit it in, and the hundreds of serpents vanished without a trace, as if they had all just been an all too realistic figment of their overactive imagination. The door opened with a soundless creak, presenting only a hole of darkness. This time, Draco did not reach for her hand.

"Let's go."

He stepped in first with Hermione at his heel. It was dark and silent – a dead silence that frosted the air and made the atmosphere all around them so still that their breaths – though they were breathing as quietly as they could – shook the whole room. She felt something powdery underneath her feet, thicker this time. The room smelled of something strong, something that made her heart cower away in fright, and there was a repugnant hint of smoke that wafted closely by.

They could not see a single thing, and Hermione, on instinct, reached out her hand and immediately found Draco's already searching for hers. Their hands didn't fumble for each other's and instead fit perfectly, relieving her. She held on tight, her fingers encircling around his firmly as she felt him do the same.

He lit his wand and it blazed brighter, lighting up their side of the room. It was empty. Hermione could see silver powder on the ground, dull in color and looking like a bleached form of gunpowder. The floor was marred with veins of old fractures and badly cracked, branching out like the limbs of a great tree, with deep potholes that ruinously penetrated through the ground, exposing a bottomless pit underground. Windows were terribly shattered and some were boarded up, the scruffy planks of wood hanging down from the bent and askew nail.

Draco lit a torch. The fire roared with a surprising volume that passed through their ears and skittered past their bodies, and their whole surroundings were revealed to them. The once helpful glow from his wand vanished as he unknowingly let go of her hand and Hermione looked around the room, feeling her heart fall to the swamp-like pit of her stomach at their barren environment. Her eyes trailed the dusty, splintered chairs that had been maimed, the broken tables, the mounds and mounds of ashes set in wee perfect piles all across the room. The firelight flickered, casting a yellow haze athwart their faces and the walls, causing dead shadows of dead things to graze their fingers and the floors.

They searched the other doors, the hallways, and the other rooms until they returned to the same place.

His voice was hollow when it reached her blood-pounding ears. "They're gone."

Hermione's voice was coarse and rough, as if she'd just swallowed down a gallon of the strewn ashes covering the ground. "How-how can that be?" It quivered and it passed on to her shoulders – once stiff and unyielding – making them tremble. The destroyed room swallowed up the rest of the leftover words that lay limp in her brain and the air that was polluted with a sticky aroma of a haste escape and an empty-handed first mission. It stuck to her clothes and clustered up in places that she wished were immune to such things.

"They like to move around," he sighed, turning around and observing the place with dark eyes. "No permanent location. Especially after the attack in Hogsmeade, I should have known they wouldn't stick around."

"Yet you didn't." Her voice was bitter and cold and angry. She turned to him with accusing eyes, feeling that blistering tumor in her throat start to form again.

Draco's gaze turned defensive, flickering with the fleeting scatters of light. "You knew this wasn't going to be this easy. I told you there were about a million places they could be hiding out. Don't act as if it's my fault they'd chosen to get smart and relocate themselves."

"But is it?" she asked, her voice's edge starting to become sharp and piercing with blame and charge. "Did you tip them off, Malfoy? Did you tell them—"

"Don't start with me, Granger," he lowly warned her.

"Don't start what, Malfoy?" she spat.

"Your nutty finger-pointing, that's what!" he shouted. "I didn't call the Death Eaters to Hogsmeade that day, all right? I didn't _tell_ them your precious Potter and Weasley would be there and unsuspecting for a bloody attack! And I most certainly didn't tip them off that we were coming here! Why would I if they're out to kill me too?"

His voice resonated through every flit of dust, every shell of darkness, every crevice of the rotting wood. It wobbled the hanging glass on the frosty windows. It phased the fire that shrunk and wavered against the wall. It smashed Hermione's cruel cover and defense, plunging her back to their rummaged reality.

She was frozen, still slightly shaking. Their eyes unwaveringly stayed on each other's, colliding and igniting both their bodies in an icy fire. Then she closed her eyes, tightly and firmly squeezing them shut, letting out a steadying breath that eluded in a chopped release. A red mix of realization and a cold prick of confusion plagued her, tangling up her vocal cords and the coils of her mind in one vast knot. "I'm… I didn't know."

She didn't ask why. Didn't ask why they were out to kill him too, didn't ask if that was the reason why he had wanted to help her – because he had nothing to lose. She didn't ask why, even though those three letters were all that pulsed through her that very moment.

She bravely opened her eyes and they rested on him again. He looked fierce, like a perfect ice sculpture. "I… I apologize." She had to force herself to squeeze out those two words to him, no matter how appropriate it was. They left a nasty aftertaste on her tongue. Tangy but slimy and thick.

He didn't persist on the topic, only turned his head and pointed his attention to the larger piles of ashes a distance away from them. They were bigger heaps, bigger than the ones she had seen. She counted four.

"Aurors," Draco simply said. His expression was grave and his tone was deep and tolling, like the spun out bass of the clangor of a bell. His eyes dimmed beneath the loose silver of his hair.

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. "Au… Aurors?" she whispered.

Draco nodded, peering around. "No wonder this place seems more of a hellhole than it usually is. We weren't the first ones who came here to bust them. Some Aurors came," he motioned to the ashes, "and ended up powder."

"The ashes?" she choked out. "The Death Eaters – they – no, they can't've—"

"It's become a favorite of theirs over the past few months," he sneered. His voice sent creeps through her skin. "Strange since they've always had a liking for making grotesque messes and shedding blood."

_They're up to new tricks_, he seemed to be telling her.

Hermione swallowed down hard, trying to breathe again. It was difficult.

Draco peered around the room, the tendons on his pale face tightened and taut; his eyes like two glistening diamonds. "We'd better go. We've got other places to get to."

Hermione nodded, the silence beginning to take its toll on her. There was something about this room. Something terrible. Something that made her stomach turn, something that caused her head to revolve with gaining speed. She felt that sour and acidic fluid start to climb up her throat again, a sharp throbbing start to emanate from the back of her skull.

He talked more, but his words came to her like a roar of the sea. Loud but indistinct and drowning of power and natural strength. It flooded her ears easily, coarse and rough but warm and filling. She saw Harry again. That last look she'd had of him storming away, leaving her behind, a great crush of impotence and the miserable feel of being hopelessly paralyzed striking an impacting blow to her chest. He'd attacked her – her, Hermione. He'd told her to stay away. Don't follow him. And so he hurled a spell at her so there was no way she could.

"We're going to have to Apparate again."

She felt that stiffness in her body again. That heaviness of guilt and hurt and pain.

"Granger?"

"Right." Her head was light, floating amidst the clouds, spirited away from her body but anchored down to the chaotic state of her broken-down world. She inhaled a deep sigh of air, blinking her eyes then looking at him, where he was looking at her back with a strange look in his eyes.

"Prepare yourself. There are worse places," he advised her. There was no pity, no sympathy in his voice, and she found that she appreciated it. She had enough people mourning for her, feeling sorry for her. She had been counting on Draco Malfoy being nothing of that – sympathetic.

And, in turn, she spoke upon the poignant clout that had baptized her heart and head in that lucid moment of memory: "I know."

* * *

**Post-A/N:** Thanks to all of the very supportive readers and reviewers! I'm very glad that you like this fic! I do understand it may be slightly different from my other fics, as this is a more serious one – but a change in scenery couldn't hurt, right? I'd never written one with that whole action/adventure thrill before, but so far it proves to be a worthy experience!


	4. Kismet Vapors

**A/N: **I hadn't really been counting on this turning out to be a dark fic (though I suppose on some levels I knew – subconsciously) but there'll be one particularly disturbing scene here with one of the Death Eaters' secret headquarters that I apologize for. I had some second thoughts of writing it, myself, but I knew there had to be some of the disturbing elements to emphasize the urgency of finding Voldemort and the Death Eaters. But, again, this wasn't made to be a particularly dark fic so those will be very few. Hopefully.

**Chapter Four: Kismet Vapors**

He Apparated them to another town. It was a friendlier town, but it was nothing shy of desolate. Shop signs were faded and worn, bleached by the sun and ravaged by storms and nature's surefire artless mood swings that could turn even the most withstanding edifice into a rotting, dingy illusion balancing on the sinking ground like a clumsily-made house of cards. The streets were full of dead but persistent weeds that peeked out from the cement breaks and the murky, the foreboding sky smudging above them now caused Hermione to swallow down with worry.

The population only seemed to consist of a few aged witches, vivid brushes and deserted Manors. It relieved her that there weren't any particularly wicked-looking individuals strolling around for a good kill most unlike the last town they had visited, but there was also something upsetting about this place that made her stomach feel like a sudden pincushion bursting with pins and needles. It was unsettling. She had a very terrible feeling that there was something horribly wrong with it… and she hadn't enough stupidity to ask for certainty on her gut feeling – the Death Eaters had chosen to make this town one of their temporary homes. Of course there was some hideously perverse discrepancy to it. Though her usual curiosity caused her to bite the inside of her cheek, itching to ask Draco just what it was that made her want to flee this place as fast as she could, she gulped it down with the helpful feeling that she would become sick again if she were to find out.

He risked more than enough suspicious and alert glances around before he led her into another passageway. They walked down the crumbling concrete stairs, and Hermione shivered as she smelt the reek of mildew and rancid, wet molds, sticky and full of clinging, heavy moisture that she felt rub into her hair, her clothes and down into the pores of her skin. Her legs wobbled when they had to jump across a yawning rupture in the ground that she could have sworn held a few decomposing bodies at its very distant bottom, and that was when she felt the heaviness of them start to weigh her down. She tried to keep up with Draco and his fast-paced strides, but she could not control the limitations of her body and it frustrated her.

The miles and miles of non-stop walking and then her emotional shake had worn her out. Her feet were aching and her eyes were starting to play tricks on her, blurring things together most inconveniently. One of her feet almost fell through one of the dangerous wide fissures in the ground and a loud, fearful gasp had punctured free from her aching lungs before she felt a strong hand around her waist, rapidly helping her up from her possible doom. She looked up to find impatient and scowling steely eyes boring into hers before she was able to steady herself and he quickly jerked back his arm from her like he had just touched something unbearably filthy and disgusting. He ordered for her to keep up and headed on at an even faster speed.

Scornful, Hermione ran up to catch up with him, bitterly wondering how that could have possibly revolted him after they had held hands for more time than anyone in their right mind would have allowed. Dismissing all thoughts about her first bout of physical touch with Malfoy that hadn't included any feelings of vexation or hex threats at all, she shuddered and focused back on the mission.

Then he halted. Hermione almost stumbled right into him, but she caught her step in time as he kneeled down with a voluminous flush of his black robes and started to trace his palms searchingly across the floor. Hermione looked at him in bewilderment but could only silently watch as soon a hollow, glassy and heavy sound of release filled her ears, like the delicate and scraping clank of the lid being lifted off of an ancient tomb. It let out a clammy gust of air that blew straight into her face. Draco had lifted a square of cement right off the ground, revealing another staircase. The dim light poured into the underground passage, and Hermione felt her pulse start to pound in her veins.

He slid the cover to the side. "Come on," he told her quietly, and he walked in first. Once bathed in the damp darkness that again seemed to awkwardly congest her throat and lungs, she felt something cold sweep by her – like wind but solid and dense – and had moved her arm further out in front of her to blindly make for his hand, but suddenly became terrifyingly conscious of what she was doing and quickly retrieved her astray limb, setting it firmly by her side. While the other, barely trembling, was tightly clutching her wand.

He spoke of the feeling before she did. She assumed that maybe it was because of his fiercely brazen nature, unfeeling and unafraid of reality. He'd seen so much, and she knew it. It had strengthened his outlook on the world, knowing he'd witnessed the worst and his guesses and muses about the worst pain and worst death and worst anything had disintegrated away like a sand rock once his eyes had been opened by that gruesome image of blood, torture, and murder and a bloodcurdling scream had penetrated through his bones. He had nothing to be afraid of anymore. Not even failure. Or the truth.

And Hermione hated him a little more because of that.

"It's empty. They're not here."

And as he lit another torch, their postulation was served true. It was empty, totally void of creatures or Death Eaters, but the scene was familiar: the thrown chairs, cracks bleeding from the walls, the wrecked appearance of every inch of every part of the place. Hermione felt a sigh quiver through her entire body before it made it past her lips, grazing the still air. She loosened the grip of her wand, feeling cramps shoot up her wrists and fingers.

They searched the other rooms. There were only three of which there was a fireplace mounted with piles and piles of decomposing wood and a mountain of black ashes. Broken furniture. Poor walls. Grungy floors. There was not a trace of them left – not a single hair, not a candy wrapper, not a spot of ink. Nothing.

Then Hermione found a small outlet that revealed a staircase. Hearing it creak and sag unsteadily underneath her feet, expecting to hear the loud crack of it breaking and the pulling sensation of her falling through the air, she tightly pursed her lips and closely held onto the wooden rails. It sent sharp wooden splinters to pierce right through her hands. She slowly walked up, breathing heavily, expecting to find another barren room with beaten walls and thick, solid dust that had formed into blankets of sand over time.

But as she finally stepped off the top stair, making it to one of the level ground rooms, relieved and finally letting out a breath, her breath ceased the moment it reached the air. She was frozen. Her heart had faded away in the shock that rattled in her eardrums.

There she stood, in the front of a nursery. There were cribs of all sorts: cribs with delicate bows, cribs with lace hangings, cribs painted blue, cribs painted green. There was a mobile hanging atop one of them of stars and the moon, smiling and jovial with a long and perky nose. It had faded with age but was perfectly preserved as she walked along, fingering the flimsy bows, the frail lace that she was afraid would crumble away once she touched them with her oil-contaminated fingers. But as she glanced into the first of the cribs, she felt her heart that had momentarily absented itself away from shock leap back inside her chest again, as if someone had pulled it from her chest like a slingshot and let go, flinging it back in with great force.

She let out a great cry, her lungs suddenly aching with such a great pain, stumbling back, her legs buckling underneath her. A shot of something excruciating and so terrible, sharp and violent and fierce, blasted through her body. Her limbs quavered dangerously and her body started to heave, feeling her eyes burn as if she had just set them on fire, her fist clenching against her chest. She couldn't breathe.

There, in the comfortable and soft cushion bedding of the cribs… was blood. Lots of blood. It had dried away, crusted into the inside like a permanent scar, but it covered everything. The blood of a several months or weeks-old baby. And as she looked around wildly, her vision blurring away, she tore through the room, looking into each of the cribs and finding each to be the same. Blood, blood, blood. Like they had single-handedly gone through each crib and had murdered each baby with their bare hands.

Her head spun and it ached like nothing she had ever experienced. The pain was so indestructible that she felt it impact her whole body. She collapsed in the middle of the room, her knees hitting the floor hard and sending a buzzing sensation static through her legs and fingers. The walls and cribs whirled uncontrollably around her, pulling and pushing, as Hermione sobbed and fought for breath.

Babies.

Babies who had just come into the world, babies who'd done no wrong.

Slaughtered.

It was an indescribable feeling to find out that a vast and perverse sin had been committed to children who had just opened their eyes just days ago. It fisted her heart, crushing it down until she felt it sagging against her ribs. Her lungs contracted. Her head was suddenly filled with images of blood and bright flashes of light and loud cries filled her ears.

She didn't know when Draco had arrived. She just knew that when she looked up from the few minutes of crying her eyes out in pain and in loss, he was there. Standing before her, looking into one of the cribs with a stoic look on his face. But his gaze never moved – did not flinch. But when he turned to her she saw that his eyes were now the color of gathering storm clouds.

"How could they do such a thing?" Hermione cried out, her scratchy throat dry and hoarse. "H-how? To _babies_!"

"They're Death Eaters, Granger. They do it for their own twisted fun." Even his voice had gained a forced edge.

Hermione was enraged. "That doesn't pardon them from—"

"I know it doesn't pardon them," Draco told her firmly, giving her a stern look. "Nothing can pardon this. But it happened. And they'll keep doing it until the Dark Lord's in power again."

She wanted to see pain in his eyes. She wanted to see guilt, a tearing guilt that would rip through his soul to even have been associated to such a creature. But she didn't know what she saw in his eyes then, dark and murky like bubbling tar pits. There might have been something that flashed through them like crackling flashes of lightning. She didn't know. The tears in her eyes – no matter how many times she wiped them away on her sleeve – always found themselves clouding up her vision again. And that was how she knew she'd remember that moment – blurry and salty and in agony. Malfoy's midnight robes like a demon in her blotchy view. The cribs smudged into pastel blots into the yellow walls. The mobile becoming mere floating dots and spider web threads, a frail skeleton of something that used to be tangible. But then there was blood. There would always be blood.

She cried until her head felt heavy and so disoriented she wobbled and dangerously swayed when she stood. But this time, Malfoy took a hold of her hand again, sticky and wet from her tears, leading her out of the room. She knew that he'd figured she'd needed the extra push. She didn't notice the slight squeeze he had unknowingly given her before he pulled back his hand, and only noticed the sudden warmth that was gone from her palm.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

He Apparated them right at the edge of a forest. Hermione looked up at the sudden looming presence before them, clenching her jaw in anticipation as the trees extended far above her head and rivaled the majestic sky. She immediately knew that these were Kismet Oaks, observing from their smooth reddish bark and lean limbs, with some brown spotting on a few that had breached their lifelines and were now nearing their nine hundredth year of being rooted to the earth. Despite the worn and crumpled look of some trees that lived to long age, Kismet Oaks were not ones to compare. Their frames were slender and their bark stayed sleek and smooth, sprouting shiny emerald leaves that never dried out and only detached and fluttered to the cluttered floor in perfect synchronization and condition when the winds of autumn befell.

She peered through the trees' bodies, observing the narrow gaps before the spaces broadened as her gaze traveled deeper within the woods. Brown leaves of other trees showered the ground in a diversity of colors that struck brilliant when a scatter of sunrays would manage to peek through the full heads of the trees. There was no sun today, but the leaves still shone vivid and bold as if a rebellion against nature's dull and chilly disposition. The air that swiped against her skin was frosty and damp, and she tried to control the niggling shivers that rippled through her whole body.

There was something about this forest. Not something terrible. Something… magical, if that made any sense. Everything was magical in the wizarding world, but there was something about these particular woods that lured her in.

A breeze whished by and the leaves glided up into the air, spiraling in a vibrant display, then lowering back down when the gust disappeared. It seemed to be beckoning to her.

She vaguely wondered when it was that spring weather would catch up to them. They still seemed to be stuck in the aftershave of the winter.

She entered along with Draco, both stepping a foot in the woodland area at once. He led the way still, and she followed him, dodging the trees, hearing the dead leaves crackle beneath their feet. The place was beautiful as Hermione suddenly felt her heart become hoisted up by an invisible fleeting presence, making her feel afloat, the burdens and pain hanging heavily upon her shoulders lessening and finally disappearing. Her vexed and troubled mind cleared, and suddenly even the air she was breathing seemed fresher.

Hermione glanced around her. She knew it was the trees that were doing this. People wise of the mind had always told her that no one could ever walk out of a forest with an unclear mind, but she'd always thought it'd just been a figure of speech. She didn't think it'd actually be true. But it made sense – trees had the power to heal. If its fluids or leaves could heal a person's physical wounds, why couldn't its scent heal the mind? Everything seemed so simple now.

She sighed wistfully, savoring the spicy scent of the woods and the trees.

Then an incongruent question popped up in her mind. Why would the Death Eaters choose this place to make one of their headquarters? To mislead, maybe? Because no person of sound mind would think Death Eaters could stand such a place – let alone remain in it for long amounts of time. But could evilness still linger around such a tranquil and serene setting? It almost seemed unfeasible. The trees, the rustling leaves, the zesty aroma that soothed the bones, the sound of a much different dimension of silence that pleased the mind… evil couldn't exist here. Could it?

"Malfoy," she heard herself saying quietly, walking faster so that she was beside him. He did not budge and only stared ahead and Hermione focused in on his expression: determined and resolute. From his side-view she studied his fine profile made for a Greek God: the fine patrician shape of his nose, the curve of his lips and the pout of his full bottom lip. His skin was the color and as smooth as ivory, left unmarked without any blemishes from adolescence like a newborn child. Caught in a daze, she realized there was a certain beauty about him in a place like this. With the mélange of green, brown and red leaves, the silent wind, the way his hair blew so softly and was no longer restricted by a suffocating hair product that made him look like a mobster from the 1950's. The colors complimented him stunningly and Hermione was mesmerized.

"Are you sure we're in the right place?" Her voice sounded distant and faraway, afloat and drifting to her ears. Colors swirled all around her as if in a drug-induced hallucination. Something heavy and misty confused her mind.

He looked at her then, a flash of something unreadable washing over his eyes. "Keep your head, Granger," he snapped to her, his tone quiet as to not to disturb their atmosphere – though it still contained its jagged ridge that managed to fling her back into reality. She shook her head; blinking hard, shivering, wondering what it was that had made her feel that way. Hypnotized, almost. Suddenly she felt very uncomfortable in her own skin as she quickly rolled her head to her shoulders before straightening up again, clenching her fists.

"These woods have a strong affect on first-comers. Be wary. Remember what I told you about appearances." He was still looking at her, his eyes like the steel of enchanted swords. "And, whatever you do," he lowly warned her, "_focus_."

"Right," she breathed. "Focus."

The word took a moment to settle on her bones.

"There should be a cave if we go deeper," he quietly informed her, and Hermione drew closer to him, making certain that his words only left his mouth and reached her ears alone. "We go northeast, if I'm correct. There should be the tallest Kismet tree there with an S carved into the trunk."

Hermione opened her mouth to say more, to release the volatile questions that coursed through her so hotly that she was itching to ask him, but she reluctantly clamped her lips back together, responding with a firm nod.

They walked further into the woods; the long and slender and sometimes broad and bulky stalks neither clearing nor thickening. The air around them became frostier and the sky that was shrouded by the overlooking leaves and branches had begun to blush grandly, sending streaks of fiery orange and golden yellow to paint across the never-ending spectacle. Her mouth had quirked upwards when she had caught sight of the dazzling miracle from a slight part in the trees.

After more relentless walking, she finally sensed Draco's anticipation skyrocket, as his eyes seemed to focus determinedly on one particular spot. Hermione followed his gaze, her body tensing with apprehension and her muscles jumping to life. He then turned and started to walk faster with Hermione emitting a soft gasp, following after him.

He stopped before a Kismet Oak, one with a thinner trunk and rougher bark. His eyes searched the tiny crevices, the smooth spots, the coarse patches. Then, finally, his hand traced upon a small S that had been inscribed right in the heart of the tree. "This is it," he whispered, his serious gaze flickering to hers. Hermione nodded, swallowing hard.

"Follow me. Stay close." Hermione watched him as he began to lead the way, almost reaching for his hand but stopping herself in time again and running to catch up with his wide and rapid strides incensed with strong will. With one last glance at the S on the tree that shrunk and shrunk as she got farther and farther away, a ray of light landed right on the score and made it glow.

They only had to walk little before they discovered the cave Draco had been talking about. Hermione had been slightly paralyzed with surprise as she discovered its large form, sturdy and strong. They had reached the more untamed parts of the wood, with weeds growing from the side of the cave and stubborn green vines rooting itself to the mossy rock surface. It was almost hidden by a blanket of leaves, but as Draco cut away the overgrown plantation that had veiled the yawning entrance with a single swish of his wand, it was revealed. He walked in with no qualms as his black robes fluttered, stepping right into the cave as Hermione hurried in after him, her grip on her wand tightening so that she could feel the pain shooting through her skin.

The interior was spacious, certainly enough to hold a dozen Death Eaters at once. There was a little hole in the back that had chains deeply nailed into the stone and Hermione clenched her teeth when she saw the traces of blood all over it. There was a sacrificial altar in the middle of the room, carved out of stone and pieces of marble, a malicious snake incised to coil all over it from base to top, its head protruding above the flat surface with its mouth was open wide. Its eyes held rubies that shone like blood in a vial, dazzling when caught in firelight.

Hermione involuntarily shivered.

Draco held the stone snake in his hand, brushing its snout with his long and slender fingers and slid delicately over its eyes. There was a wide gap in the serpent's mouth that made it obvious to Hermione it had been intended to hold something.

"The dagger's gone," said Draco, looking up at her with dim eyes. There was no fire in them. She saw exhaustion gently – and ever so subtly – mounting up right below his eyes, and Hermione felt her heart fall again. They were both so exhausted. They'd walked everywhere because of Draco's little rules of the road and the non-Apparating barriers that forced them to land miles before their destination, and it still never ceased to surprise her how he held their excursion with so much fragility. His hostility was still a given as she hadn't ever expected that to change about him, but a certain change did occur. Faint, soft, so finely traced… these last two days had been secretly stirring up conversions inside both of their bodies that Hermione didn't know whether they should welcome or not.

"Dagger?" she repeated, trying to keep a straight face though all she wanted to do was sit and rest her sore and blistered feet. She had to think. She had to try to make sense of things – where could the Death Eaters be? Where was Harry? Certainly he couldn't be too far ahead of them, even though he did bring his broom. Did he really know where to look, proving Malfoy to be wrong all along? Or could Malfoy be right? Could Harry be just as lost as they were?

"A ceremonial dagger. The Dark Lord and the Death Eaters used it often." He kept out the detail, which Hermione was grateful for. She'd seen so much of their destruction today. She didn't think she could bear it if she heard what they did in a secluded cave in the middle of nowhere where the trees sent out enchanted vapors that deluded the mind. "It isn't here anymore. They're not to be back here any time soon," he sighed.

"And how do you know that? What if they just decide to pay a little visit, torture another innocent soul in their favorite stone cave? What if they take Harry here and—"

"Granger." His voice was rigid and constricted. His eyes darkened. "They're not coming back here. The dagger's gone. They've hid to flee. Their numbers were hurt drastically that day in Hogsmeade, and unless they want to kill themselves by welcoming Potter into their arms, they're not foolish enough to come back to one of their hideouts." He paused, his gaze intensifying. "And they wouldn't take Potter here. It echoes."

"Malfoy," she said through gritted teeth. "That isn't funny."

"I wasn't trying to be funny."

"Then would you mind just telling me where we're going to head to next? A swamp, perhaps? A zombie-infested graveyard? Or what about Hell? Will we get to meet Satan and have a spot of tea?"

"You will if you don't stop snapping at me," he barked at her. "Patience is important here, Granger. Every human who's stepped into this place without any drop of patience ends up getting killed. So I suggest you be a sodding Gryffindor like you should be and get some."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked him. "Every human without patience who steps into this place gets killed? What are you on?" she asked irritatingly.

"I _mean_ we can't get out of here. Not for a while, at least."

Hermione felt the blood pumping through her body freeze over, her jaw going slack from astonishment. "_What_?"

"We'll never make it out of here in time," he informed her. "These woods change; they're enchanted that way. We may be nearer or even farther. But it isn't safe to go during the dark. There are more dangerous creatures than Death Eaters lurking around here."

Her head began to spin. She needed to sit down. Feeling her legs wobble beneath her, she clutched onto the wall for support, but even that didn't do her much good. Malfoy's words had shaken her far too much. "What do you mean they change?"

"I thought you were supposed to be smart," he snapped. "I'm certain you've read it in your little books." When Hermione did not confirm reading such a thing, he signed irritably and explained. "There are some forests that naturally release illusionment charms, and especially this place, which has—"

"Kismet Oaks," whispered Hermione, realization finally dawning on her with an earth-shattering descent.

"Exactly," said Draco. "That's why you started to feel funny after a while. When the sun starts to set the charms begin to take place, and they constantly change. No one has been able to get out. They either go mad out of their wits or get eaten by an animal, or starve, or kill themselves. Patience, Granger," he repeated, "is a virtue. It'll save your life around here."

Hermione gulped, trying to quench that sudden aridity that was starting to spread through her mouth and throat. "So how long do we have to wait?"

"The next full moon. It's when the illusionments vanish for a few hours. It'll be risky walking through the night…" There was a skeptical look about him. "But if we're lucky, we'll be able to keep all of our limbs and our wits tucked in the right spot when we leave this place."

"And…" Hermione had a very terrible feeling tugging at her stomach at this question. "… When exactly is the next full moon?"

Draco pressed his lips together tightly, looking at her through his pale blond hair, reluctance in his eyes. There was silence before he finally answered her in a steady drawl, causing her body to tremble and then leap up in fierce protest as his words vociferously traveled through her ears and mind like a clanging bell.

"Four days?" she almost shrieked. "_Four days_?" She felt as if her breath and all of her bones had just been knocked out of her body in one swift mind-blowing hit, causing her entire body to collapse heavily against the wall.

"I know it'll be a massive delay, Granger, but if we venture out now we'll find ourselves in an even larger predicament – we could become even more lost—"

"_Four days_?" she said again, not being able to haul herself over to believe him. It stung her tongue like bile acid, and punctured the bubble of hope she had been trying to persistently build and strengthen over their hours and hours of walking to new, upsetting horrors. _Harry,_ her mind kept repeating with a fire-filled desperation that smoldered between her cracked lips and hands, _Harry. What about Harry?_

Something heavy replaced her ribcage. It felt like an oversized slab concrete and its sharp corners tore her insides, sending an uproar of tart and mordant liquid to crawl up her throat.

"Four days, Malfoy? But what about Harry?" she asked him, no longer caring if he could hear her utterly hopeless fear and anxiety now, because it was what she felt. She felt it in her fingers, in her sensitive tendons, in the fibers of her skin. Flowing like molten lava mothered by the coldest of ice so that it stung and burned at the same time, sending twice the pain, twice the compressed screams scorching her gullet, twice the feeling of certain death and doom.

"What about Harry? Who knows how far he could be right now? Who knows if he's with Voldemort and his merry little band of Death Eaters _right now_? Who knows if he's been—"

"Killed?" Draco sharply interrupted, and Hermione sucked in a shocked and pained breath. "Believe me, Granger, if Voldemort had managed to capture Harry Potter by now," Draco said darkly, "we'd know. The _whole_ wizarding world would know – because the wizarding world would become hell on earth. So stop dithering about. It's useless. It'll wear you out and drive you barmy, and _you'll_ drive me barmy, then I'll be so frustrated and blindsided that _I'll_ end up killing you, and we don't want that, do we?" His eyes narrowed at her, scowling.

Hermione shook her head, sinking to her knees, her breathing hard and labored. "We'll never get to him in time. He's going to try and fight Voldemort by himself, and he's… he's…"

"There's not much chance Potter would find them within a week, Granger," Draco managed to dryly inform her, lowering his sore body and sitting down on the floor, facing the wall in front of him and leaning his head against the hard stone of the altar. He could hear her behind him. "He's not exactly the cleverest bloke to go after them by himself without any resources. He couldn't possibly know where to look. He's completely underestimating the Death Eaters."

"Unless Voldemort wants him to find them," she whispered, her voice giving out a slight quiver that invoked a slight and bothersome pinch at Draco's unyielding heart.

"There's that. But it's too predictable – besides, they're in hiding for a reason. Voldemort was wounded that day – immensely. And he only attacks when he knows he'll win." He then closed his eyes, feeling the solid chill of the marble inject into his scalp and flow through his body, sending familiar tingles that crackled like electricity through his veins.

He balled his fists, feeling his nails bite into his palms, and he could almost feel the metallic mold of the dagger in his hands again. The jewels that glistened so evilly and maliciously that it was mesmerizing and beautiful, the sharp edge that could slice through stone and bone in one swipe, flashing in the light like nothing he'd ever seen. He felt a longing moan erupt from the depths of his chest as he recalled the sensation of such overwhelming power thrumming through every inch of his body, the complete fate of a soul, the complete supremacy over another being.

He almost smiled at the recollection. After standing in the shadows of Potter and his two mousy friends for half of his life, trying to wipe the trails of blood and sin that followed his father's feet everywhere he arrogantly trod for both halves of his doomed life – and, utmost trying to tower above such victorious and frustrating beings that forever wiped his accomplishments with the floor… he relished the feeling. A whole and complete – albeit grotesque – victory and pride that was all his, all his own to call his own. Greater than capturing the Golden Snitch, greater than saving the school, greater than saving the pathetic hides of his friends, greater than making the front page of newspapers, greater than instilling a pulsing faith in the hearts of Mudbloods and witches and wizards alike… It was overpowering. Consuming, so intense that he'd even gone a bit mad with the temporarily bestowed power. It was even almost enough to erase the sound of the scream of a man dying a thousand painful deaths bequeathed by Draco's own hand from his nightmares.

That moment he'd been seduced by the concept of control and power that he now knew was unreachable to any kind. But he remembered the deep eclipse of his heart, tainted and completely destroyed by a demon stronger than the influences of Voldemort, his father, or even Snape and his mother's protection: himself. It was that moment that had dug him a bottomless grave, the same moment that had landed him right where he was right now.

And he didn't know if it was her finally confessing her musings that he'd wondered about before or just something his mind had conjured up, but a soft voice filled his ears, trembling, gentle like a spring breeze, giving him the warmth of a distant memory.

"_But what if he does win? What if he does and we're all just kidding ourselves?"_

Even he didn't have the answer for that one. And somehow, he didn't want to.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

They were confined in themselves for an hour. Draco had lapsed into a heavy drought-like sleep and then was awakened by a disturbing sense throbbing in the back of his mind, like a looming presence, only to open his eyes to see nothing but the rutted stone wall before him. His back was stiff and still sore from the hard surface he was leaning on, but the long-needed respite relieved his body and that relieved his soul.

A silent sigh slipped from his lips as he shifted, slightly shivering when he felt the cold air sweep in the cave, turning his head and watching as the darkening sky churned with a terrible and gloomy blue. Feeling his body still rather drugged down with the lingering affects of his nap, he began to close his lids again, only to have them shoot open, feeling his breath stop short in his throat. He scrambled to his feet, not bothering to smooth out the irreparable creases in his shirt and trousers, looking with wide eyes at where he had last seen her and confirming his worst fears: she was gone.

"_Fuck_," he cursed harshly, running out of the cave and looking around, breathing hard. He searched the trees that had now crowded in to circle their area menacingly. He spun around, rapidly hunting for her familiar head of unkempt hair, fisting his hands on his robes when he spotted only leaves and logs and mobbing trees.

Just as he was about to curse yet again, her name scalding his mouth, he turned with his glaring eyes and that's when he saw her: sitting on an overlooking log, staring straight ahead to the encircling and still trees. Her body was completely motionless as he felt relief loosen the bind in his chest and he was able to breathe normally again, feeling the boiling in his skull begin to ever so slightly subside.

He was just to turn around and head back to the cave, but then took a second glance at her sitting figure. Something about the way her spine stood so severely rigid and the sharp bones of her shoulders perked noticeably from underneath her clothes made his mind hesitate to leave her in an open space by herself. Though her wand was right nearby on a flat surface where one of the fallen log's branches had been cut off, nestled by rings and rings of wooden age, and he knew she could easily grab it when trouble came… a twisting feeling intruded his normal cold feelings towards the girl. Maybe it was the way he had seen her cry today when she'd stumbled upon the nursery the Death Eaters had so grotesquely wrung out of newborn life, her body crumpled down so brokenly to the floor, heaving with violent shudders, sobbing for loss and pain and agony.

He'd felt something then. Warm and stinging, making its way up his body, a swelling inside right near where his heart beat so uselessly. Pity, perhaps. Sympathy. He'd felt sorry for her for caring about life she'd never known, for baptizing the room with her sad tears, for feeling something that he knew he could never take. He'd hated people like her, people who were so connected with their emotions, delving into them with no contradictions, but he'd known right then and there, as he watched her as she cried for the lost life, that on some level he'd felt unhappy for them, too. Because they were so vulnerable to the world, their hearts willingly opening to whoever and whatever comes and knocks, they had to accept the pain that trespassed as well. He'd always thought they were fools that way. But perhaps it was only because they were naïve. Or hopeful.

Letting out a deep sigh, he silently walked towards where she sat. He didn't know if she'd heard him coming, but once he settled a few inches from beside her, he sensed her stiffen. She didn't look at him, didn't speak to him – until he heard her voice again. Softer, this time. Not so angry, but still miserable just the same.

He was actually a bit surprised. He hadn't gotten the chance to get used to Gryffindors who had succumbed into mild depression and had lost their argumentative nature and hot tempers, and now he was almost wishing he did.

"You know Harry hasn't been captured because of something else, don't you?" she asked, though it wasn't a question at all. Her voice was flat and toned deep, deeper than he'd ever heard. It came from somewhere deeper than her lungs.

"Yes," Draco answered. "And about ninety-nine percent of the time, it's a fail-proof system," he drawled.

Hermione didn't ask what it was; only pursed her lips and continued to look straight ahead with a stern gaze.

"I thought the Death Eaters used to hole up in your manor."

Draco knew this was the time to liberate the inevitable bout of truth. Granger was never one to fool for long. "They used to function at the manor, but when speculation and suspicion started to rise about my father, they moved. They tried out a few locations – camouflaged and most unlikely to have Death Eaters festering about the place." His body tensed, knowing that she would now attack him with accusing questions and allegations.

"And how do you know how to find these places? Surely even if you'd managed to follow your little idol band of Satan juniors to some of these sites, you wouldn't have remembered every single detail." Her voice was bluntly edged, but it still struck Draco rather coldly. He knew that while he had been napping she'd been thinking and analyzing the whole trip – most especially: him. "So that means you've been to all these places," she said, finally looking at him for the first time since he'd settled out here on her log. She was giving him an accusing look.

Draco instantly became defensive, seeing that he was wrong yet again about her fickle and moody temper. "Actually, no, Bushbrain," he snapped, not very pleased at how she could turn every conversation they have into the blame game. "I haven't. Voldemort calls his followers through his dreams – lets them see where it is, what time in what light. It's more discrete and easier to Apparate there that way."

Hermione's look sharpened. "So pray tell, why is it that you're still getting these dreams?"

"Would you shine the light somewhere else rather than straight at my face?" Draco hissed. "I don't know why I still get the dreams. He probably just forgot to erase me from his little Dark black book. His evil mailing address – I don't know."

"Then how do I know this isn't just a trap? After all, you lead us in here so inconveniently, making us house up in a cave surrounded by Kismet Oaks and illusionment charms, insisting that we wait four days until we continue our search—"

"Because if it was, I wouldn't have told you everything that I just finished telling you." He looked icily at her. "Soften your defense, Granger. I know we aren't exactly on palsy terms, but a little trust wouldn't hurt. I'm not even asking for a pinch. Just a sprinkle. It'll make this road easier. Besides, there are worse things than me that might attack you out here."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's called advice." He sneered. "Why? Has the scent of the outdoors dulled your quick intellect?"

"I just happen to find it very hard to believe that we're trapped here for _four_ days without a single intentionally evil purpose from you," she confessed frustratingly, her eyes glinting like the dagger Draco had once admired and adored. "What if we're attacked? What if the Death Eaters come back to reclaim their little cave?"

"They're not," he said firmly, trying to get it through her thick head. He felt his temper sizzling with searing vapors and he had a very strong feeling he'd do something very foolish if she didn't stop accusing him and questioning every little detail of his actions. Hadn't his acceptance of her suicidal antics and her loony little trail hike a thing to be considered as _nice_? He had accepted out of the fact that he hadn't a choice, scraping by with his consistently shrinking amount of dignity, but couldn't she just find a _single_ thing to be grateful for instead of crying, snapping, and complaining? He'd been trying to be decent to her these past few days, and it seemed that while they had already covered the headquarters Draco had been so certain the Death Eaters would hide in, he was getting nowhere with Granger.

Because so far she'd just been treating him like dragon shit.

"For the _last_ sodding _time_, Granger," he glowered, "they aren't coming back. With or without Potter. _They aren't coming back_. And I'm not here acting like your bloody righteous tour guide because I wanted to, all right? And even though I have every right to somehow 'accidentally' behead you or hex you or injure you in some life-threatening manner after the way you've been treating me – I _won't_."

Granger was still glaring at him, the intensity of her gaze causing coils of heat start to bud in the back of his neck, reaching up to his scalp and dribbling down his tightening chest.

"I want you to promise me," she suddenly whispered, her voice ragged and fierce. Her opaque and inky orbs gleamed dully as their surroundings started to whistle and sing with the wind, the leaves rustling, the sky jubilating in its relieving hours of darkness. And if Draco could just peer in a little deeper, concentrate a little harder without the distraction of the pricks of the cold causing the hair on the backs of his arms to stand, he could almost see a shard of the vulnerability she had spent an endless hour trying to think away. Her anger glowed, and it was an infinite sort of anger, but he could clearly see now that it wasn't all caused by him.

It was caused by Potter.

The Death Eaters.

Voldemort.

The secrets Dumbledore had hidden from them.

The world.

And for once, it was a feeling he could familiarize with.

"I want you to swear to me that you're not going to hurt me. Physically, mentally. You can shoot me all the insults you want," she whispered lowly, "you can try to ruin me… but if you do a single thing to prevent us from getting to Harry in time, I'll willingly spend the rest of my days in Azkaban with your blood on my hands."

Her eyes did not waver. They stayed on his, clenching on his own and strangulating it with its surprising iron grip. Draco was shocked, and the desiccated and cracked laugh that originated from somewhere in his throat surprised him even more.

"You sure do like to talk tough when you're emotionally distressed, Granger," he heard himself saying to her, hearing his fake amusement even though he hadn't really any at all.

She was silent, waiting for him to grant her the permission to kill him if he did a single thing to purposely delay their path to Potter.

Draco's scowl twisted on his face, entrenched on his features, pulling one side of his mouth downwards and tugging the other side of his mouth upwards.

"Fine," he spat. "I swear. I swear I won't do anything to purposely hurt you, Mudblood."

"Good," she then said, giving him a lingering look to somehow authenticate their terms before casting her eyes back to the front. The look hardened on her face, twitching for an awkward moment, before she blinked her eyes closed and the encasing lines embedded on her severely formed expression, burdened by pain and blind confusion, was rubbed away by the invisible hands of the trees and enchanted wood. She just looked exhausted now. And, judging from the heaviness swelling from underneath her eyes, the dull sallow tone of her skin, and the way her mouth easily fell into a frown without even the slightest contraction of consent, Draco didn't think she wore the look very well.

"And what about me?" Draco demanded. "Don't I deserve some sort of oath as well? What's to protect me from the likes of you?"

"You're a big boy," she told him in a clipped tone, opening her eyes. "You can take care of yourself."

"Granger…" he snarled.

She rolled her eyes, sighing tightly. "Fine, you bratty prick. If you don't give me reason to," she said, casting him a sideways glance that he scoffed at, "I swear I won't accidentally hex one of your limbs off or sic a Swasi bear cub on you."

"Swasi bear cubs only exist in polar forests," he indignantly informed her. He then stood, his brows furrowed in an annoyed fashion. "Get it right or don't say it at all – it just makes you sound stupid."

Then as her head snapped up from his comment, she watched him with a dark expression as he did not hesitate in giving her a taunting high-and-mighty look before stepping over the dry and dead log with his long legs, leaving her behind, his stinging and distinctive musk hanging around and making her wrinkle her nose up in disgust.

She subconsciously wondered how he could still smell like that after all the places they'd gone through. They'd wearily trudged through the foreboding boundaries of the Forbidden Forest, an eternity of walking through sterile dust, the mildew and the inky, moist underground, and now the languorous pull of the wood that had an underlying reputation for being as beautiful as it was deceptively dangerous.

Still, even after all they had endured in a mere two days, she could still recognize his scent of expensive Italian leather, the icy, cutting aroma of the rain that seemed to trail after his lean stature and lingered wherever he went, and something else she couldn't quite place – all she knew was: she didn't like it. Anything that sent tingles up her spine in such a way couldn't be a good thing.

Meanwhile, Hermione huffed, glaring up at the murky hue of the abundant sky, asking just what she had done so horribly that she had to endure punishment in the form of spending four whole days with _Draco Malfoy_ in woods that naturally sought out to make its tourists lose their minds. Had she really been so foolish as to end up in such a painful predicament? And was going after Harry, Harry Potter the Hero, her best friend, the runaway – worth it?

_Of course it is_, she told herself firmly, feeling the taut state of her chest that it was almost painful, reassuring herself. She felt like the string of a bow – stretching and stretching until it could no longer, snapping before it could possibly accelerate force and bolster its force. _Of course it is. It's worth it. I need to fight with Harry, help him, do anything to let him know that he's not alone_.

There were the common disagreements voicing out that maybe Dumbledore was right – Hermione couldn't possibly help him because she wasn't supposed to, nor would Harry allow her. But the disturbing thing was: she could hear Malfoy's voice clanging through her skull now as well.

She tried to relieve herself by thinking of how it would be to have all this resolved and ended on a note that would make the whole world sigh in release. She felt it was the same sigh she felt constricted in her lungs that she couldn't let out until such a moment came.

The start of this journey had been the beginning of a seemingly eternal discomfort. Breathing required extra force, every thought granted her even more grief and doubt. Even her smiles felt different now. Not that she'd found anything to smile about within the last few hours.

Suddenly, she heard a voice that jerked through her limbs and made her body leap into the air. She had a pending guess that he'd also shattered one of her eardrums. She'd known Malfoy had always been terribly generous when it came to bestowing nuisances.

"_Well_?"

Surprised, she turned around and saw a pale face scowling at her again.

"Merlin, Malfoy, don't you _ever_ go away?" she asked him wearily, yet with a tinge of her irritation still leaking through. "Even when you go away you never _really_ go away."

He crossed his arms. "As smart as you sounded when you said that," he tartly quipped, "we can't have you just sitting out here waiting for your bloody rainbow and gold and butterflies, all right? Didn't you register anything I said about this forest? 'There are worse creatures lurking around here than Voldemort'? Does that happen to ring a bell? Or are you just playing dumb? Because I have to tell you – it's working."

"Don't get testy," she shot back. "I heard what you said." She stepped over the log, hearing the twigs and leaves crunch underneath her pressured feet, stomping past him. "Let's go then, you big Grump."

And they headed back to the cave together, each having a not so secret and growing knot of dread uncomfortably riding against their skin for the four bleary days that was still to come. Anticipation made them swallow down their fear with great difficulty. Nervousness made their palms become clammy and sweat start to leach out of their pores. Discomfort and flaring annoyance made Hermione shove Draco up against the wall when he told her that she ought to shave all of her hair off so they could use it for firewood.

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	5. Malfoy the Misanthropist

**A/N:** Long chapter, this one. But eventful and JUICY! Draco comes across a heavenly Hermione Granger at the stream, gets lost, and encounters a wood nymph! Read-worthy, no? Oh, and am also **currently seeking a beta** for this story (and possibly some of my other stories), so if you're experienced and are interested, **please send me a message!**

**Chapter Five: Malfoy the Misanthropist**

As the night grew long, the sky plunged down into the sea, the slender, milky moon carved itself above them like a Cheshire smile and a few wispy black clouds had rolled in from the east, cloaking the rest of the star-speckled sight. The winds had blown ferociously for a while, causing their fire to die out a few times before Granger had lost her patience and professionally added a shielding charm around it. Draco ate his dinner silently, looking at Granger while she met his with a challenging stare, nibbling at her food as if it was her last ration for weeks.

"We need rules," she finally said, breaking the silence, a completely serious look about her. It appeared that she had been thinking of this for quite a while now. "For this cave."

"Rules are for sissies," he snidely informed her.

"Good then, you agree," she said. "Rule number one: no undressing."

"No _undressing_?" Draco repeated with a cynical tone. "Exactly what do you think we're going to be doing in here, Granger? Just because we're trapped in a cave for four days alone with each other doesn't mean—"

"We can't just be sitting around with our filthy clothes for four days," she interrupted, giving him a look, "that's what I mean. We must go around the back of the cave or behind the bush to change and can never undress in this cave even when the other is not currently present to avoid accidents. Speaking of which: we must inform each other when we are going out, when we plan to be back, and what we are to be doing."

Draco scoffed derisively. "Rules are—"

"Completely necessary," she said.

"Would you stop interrupting me?" he snapped at her. "Rules are _dull_. Meant to be broken, as they say." He looked down at the floor with disgust. "It's like we never even left Hogwarts. I'm still imprisoned in a sodding cage because of you and your stupid rules. You think we can't live through these four days without you restricting our privileges? _My_ privileges? Leave me out of this."

"They are imperative to survive in the bear trap you've lured us into," she retaliated frostily, her face glowing gold and orange from the fire thriving in-between them, like a sort of barrier of separation. Embers whooshed into the air as breezes intruded, carrying them off every which way, bright and hot before cooling and losing their vivid color. They cast little twinkles in her eyes like little sparks from fireworks, making them seem lively and in motion, although all she was doing was scolding at him again. "Now either cooperate or—" She then _Accio_'d his wand from his side, his eyes widening as his neck turned and he tried to catch his wand but it rapidly flew over to her palm, where she then firmly closed her fingers around it. He scowled at her, muttering under his breath.

She gingerly put his wand down by her side, her mouth tugging into a haughty smile. "I won't give you your wand back."

"Fine," he snarled. He wondered how he could go through these four days without wanting to kill her. Right now the future was not looking very good. They were already in a grisly situation as it was – and now she was only making it even worse with her insufferable and bossy rule-making. Who did she think she was? The Queen? "Rule number two: stop being such an insufferable bint and give my back my wand."

"You're not getting your wand back until we've straightened out all the rules," she sternly told him. "So just sit still and stop your bellyaching."

He swore at her. Hermione ignored him.

"Rule number three: no sneaking tricks or hexes – _no_ excuses. Rule number four: we stay on our own sides. That side is on your side, this side is mine," she said, pointing out the "invisible line" drawn across the cold stone floor to mark their boundaries. Her distorted shadow mimicked her move. "I see no reason why any of us would have to cross over. Rule number five: we must maintain our distance. An arm's length of space between us at all times – no excuses."

"Fine," Draco spat. He'd be more than happy to stay a _hundred_ feet away from her. An arm's length was even too close. He didn't plan on getting any closer to her than he would a self-exploding double-ended newt.

"Six: no killing _any_ sort of animal for food. Or clothing. Our supplies are limited because I hadn't expected any delays" – she shot him a suggestive glare – "but we'll ration it justly. Neither of us are particularly heavy eaters, and if our food does happen to run out, we'll just have to hunt around for any recognizable plants or berries good for eating."

She then gave him a serious look, wrinkling her brow only so faintly. He could only make out the shadow above it where the flesh on her forehead had been shaped specifically to express her concern. "You do remember our unit on Safe Plants and Berries For Survival in Herbology, don't you?"

Draco distastefully told her that he did.

"Good. We distinctively need ones that won't cause any problems with our… bowels." She stumbled awkwardly on the last word as her cheeks flushed a light pink. "Rule seven: no leaving or abandoning each other." She sobered quickly as she said this, her lips pressing together and her eyes gaining that serious intensity again. "No excuses."

Draco, the scowl on his face tightening, narrowed his eyes at her.

"And eight: when one of us is in trouble, the other must do whatever they can to help."

"That's a load of even more rubbish," interjected Draco. "It'll be your own fault if you get yourself cornered by some beast – why should I help you?"

"Who said _I_ was the one who was going to get cornered by a beast?" she backlashed. "I'm not the one prone to stupidity like getting us stranded in a forest for four days. The last time I checked, it was _you_ who made such an imprudent choice."

"It's your bloody fault we're in here in the first place," Draco shot back. "If you could just manage to untwist your knickers and just sit still and not act as if you had sodding super powers we wouldn't even have wasted these last two days. Tell me – is it _worth_ risking your life for a boy foolish enough to go off on his own to defeat the Dark Lord when he _isn't even ready_?"

"Believe it or not, Malfoy, we're all as good as dead anyhow," Hermione bickered, passion making her cheeks start to feverishly warm again. "It doesn't matter whether we go after Harry or not, whether we just stay at Hogwarts or—"

"I know it doesn't make a difference!" shouted Draco. "But did it ever occur to you that maybe I wanted to spend my last days at that wretched school and not in some rotting cave with you? Maybe savor my corrupted upbringing in my own warm bed and not on the stone-cold base of a dank cavern?"

"This isn't exactly a paradise getaway for me either!" Hermione snapped, feeling her fists start to shake. She tried to compose herself, her silent breathing uncannily making their bonfire violently flicker.

Her hair was wiry and disarray and with the gold of the fire reflected in her dark eyes, she certainly did look the part of a cave woman. Though, as wild and filthy as she looked, there was still that containment Draco felt radiating from inside her. Secure, yet almost every part of her had been peeled back now, raw and tender, _in_secure.

"Look," she said, lowering her volume, her voice somewhat trembling from her wit's end, "it's unfair. All of it. Our ghastly circumstance, Harry running away, the Dark Lord, the Death Eaters… but—" her tone strengthened as she looked him fiercely in the eye, "it's no use fighting about it now. We've got three days ahead of us, Malfoy. Do you want us to kill each other before we even reach day two? Then it's all as good as nothing. Maybe even worse than nothing."

Suddenly, Draco felt exhausted. The seductive heat had reached him now, the allure of the fire that drugged down his brain and made his limbs and body feel like lead. Having a spat with her this time of night really was wearing him out – it was almost not even worth it. He tried to suppress his yawn as he tightly wired his jaw shut. Begrudgingly, he sent her a mean scowl but did not utter another word to condone the outcry of a verbal mêlée between him, a pure-blood, and her, an unworthy Mudblood. He'd already spent too much time on her.

Wordlessly, but still glaring at her, he swiftly undressed himself of his heavy robes, lying it down across the chill-veined ground. He lied down, turning his entire body around so that he faced the wall. He closed his eyes forcefully, letting out a sigh that tingled through him before eluding his lips, harboring a dire hope that he'd sleep a deep sleep and wake up to find himself back at Hogwarts. Though he already knew this was as real as things could possibly ever get, as real as the unforgiving coldness depressed below him, he insisted on thinking this was all just some terrible nightmare. And that he would wake up from it — soon.

Hermione compacted her moist lips, watching him with annoyed eyes. Then she led her gaze to the open entrance of the cave where the night was inky and far thicker than she had ever remembered the nights had ever been at Hogwarts. The swarm of trees had cowered back; some had boldly stepped closer, like a web of illusive soldiers on the frontline. She craned her neck to catch another glimpse of the holy moon, but it was now shrouded substantially behind the flourishing tops of the Kismet Oaks.

She then let out a deep breath, feeling it tremble beside her vocal chords, her heavy-lidded eyes running through the scene before her now. She'd done all she could. She'd performed some protective and concealing charms on the entryway of the cave, some warmth spells in addition to her successful fire, fought with Malfoy… undoubtedly, the night was complete. It was safe to retire.

She wearily plunged her hand into the leather sack sitting beside her, bringing out a light blanket she had brought along. She laid it out on the floor just as Malfoy had with his robes, smoothing it out, before lying down, shifting uncomfortably against the uncompromising stiffness beneath her. She shivered slightly, staring at the fire. She felt that surge of impotence again as she thought she'd seen Ron's fiery head jutting out at her through the flames, Harry's emerald eyes responding to her mental pleads of rescue. Not only for her. But for him, as well. For everyone stuck in a rut they couldn't get out of alone.

Then she blinked, her lids opening and landing on the figure sleeping some distance away from her. Her eyes roamed the muscular mold of his back as the fabric of his shirt stretched cozily across his perfect frame and broad, sculpted shoulders. A sigh lingered on her lips before shutting her eyes and wrinkling her nose, shuddering.

She didn't think she'd prayed much before, but it seemed essential to do so now. She had always felt awkward confessing her burdens to a being she couldn't see, but she'd always heard about how helpful God was in hopeless and doomed situations like hers. She had nothing to lose now. And so she swallowed hard and prayed. Desperation fueled on her zealous words, spilling out from her soul, looking for any branch of relief, of respite, of assistance.

Here she was, sleeping on the floor of a rock on the ground, with close to nothing amenities with an anything but affable man who was nothing the cosmopolite she wished he was. Her stomach was in knots because of her rousing scruples, and now she was even wondering whether her hasty decision really was as deplorable as Draco often articulated. But, perhaps – was this all just a test? To test her stamina? Her determination? Her love and loyalty to her friends? Still, even considering those prospects, it seemed cruelly unjust to stick her in a vapor-releasing forest with a vain ferret that fondled an ego as big as the Earth and bit like an extra feisty Snapping Snapdragon.

She reluctantly ended her short but meaningful prayer.

She sighed again as she finally let herself lull off to sleep, her defenses locking down for the night.

It was all up to God now.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

When Draco awoke, his back complained in forms of rocketing pain from the rigid floor. His back muscles and spine were pinched tender and sore, miserably aching from his discomfited position in his slumber all night. Very sore and groaning loudly, he sat up; his eyes still squinted closed as he winced, his facial tendons twitching noticeably. Ever since he'd gone on Granger's holy little excursion, he'd been feeling all sorts of pain in his limbs, his legs, his back, his head. And so it wasn't such a surprise he woke up this morning with a cantankerous demeanor.

He arched his back, feeling the releasing _crack_ it made and he moaned with relief. With two fingers eagerly massaging just below the nape of his neck, seeking any sort of physical cure to his pitiless aches, his other palm dug into his eyes, finally opening his eyes to look upon a new day.

The first thing he noticed was the scenery beyond the gape of the cave. The trees had changed again, slightly, but he felt the cool breeze that clearly signaled their midnight game of musical chairs. There was a path cleared ahead now, as he looked on. The Oaks had moved aside to show them a trail, looking like the cover of a Muggle greeting card for fall – orange, brown, with falling leaves, looking very autumn in all its beauty and as elegant as nature could get. But he only yawned as he steadily got up on his feet, walking towards the welcoming image.

He leaned against the mouth of the cave, breathing in the fresh morning air as it caressed his warm skin. The sun was barely out, but it was already bright on this side of the wizarding world. The light shone through the fluttering leaves and dazzled him when he looked upon it, feeling the strange shivers slither through his body as he felt the magnetic pull of the vapors again.

He looked to his side with wary eyes, freezing when he saw that Granger's spot had been completely cleaned out besides her leather knapsack sitting beside the wall. Then he caught sight of something at the corner of his eye, immediately turning his body to the altar with the winding marble snake. There was a scrolled note protruding from inside its mouth.

He quickly walked over and snatched it away, his fingers fumbling to open the torn parchment, his eyes thirstily drinking in her words once he got it to open.

"_Malfoy,_

_About time you got up. Got tired of waiting around for you, so I headed off to explore just a bit. Don't worry, I won't go far. I just need to look for a stream where I could possibly wash my clothes and filter some water for us to drink. That Scourgify doesn't seem to clean out the dirt as well as it used to._

_From,_

_Hermione._

_P.S. I've set your wand beside the note, on the altar."_

Instantly, Draco felt a prick of annoyance as he glowered at the letter. How many times had he clarified to her that if she even stepped one foot out the cave and into the forest she was already as good as dead? And now she was going to _explore_? She made it sound as if they were stranded in a normal wood with normal animals. Really, was it her stubbornness or was it her ignorance that never ceased to ignite her foolishness? And Draco, recalling all of the times he'd gotten angry at her glorious and much praised academic average, was starting to think now that he'd given her far too much credit. She may be smart when it came to books, but apparently it ended there.

"Good God," he grumbled to himself, tossing her note. "She's gone out to look for the Three Bears." It irked him even more to think that if she did happen to get herself lost, he'd have to go after her. Just bloody fantastic. Not only did he have to pay for her spontaneous explosion of heroics, but he also had to pay for her negligence and stupidity. What were the chances of him getting lost or getting eaten by a savage beast along the way in this treacherous forest? Far more than he could count, he hadn't a doubt. He hated Gryffindors and their uncontrollable desire to be noble or adventurous. It made him sick. He'd always known it would be the death of him someday – which he now knew was sooner than he had hoped.

But as he grabbed his wand, inspecting it to see if she had bestowed any damage or scratch so he could yell at her about it later on, he only sighed as he found not even the tiniest nick on its smooth surface. He walked back to his side and sat down, leaning against the cool stone; his head lolled back as he set his wand down beside him. He relished the peace surrounding him, quiet and tranquil, soothing and slowly rubbing away the crackling tension of the last few days. Merlin, how he was relieved to finally hear his thoughts and not Granger's constant scolding. Every time he thought of her he felt his blood pressure skyrocket, boiling in his veins and automatically causing his jaw to lock in his mouth.

How Potter and Weasley could stand her he didn't have a single clue. And for _six_ years? Oh Merlin, the complete torture! Sure, it'd guarantee a passing mark on one's documents just by copying her assignments alone (he'd had to help McGonagall grade essays for detention once, and he'd stumbled across hers. It was – he dared to say – brilliant. He'd wanted to give her a failing grade just to see if she'd really go into a full-body convulsion once she saw it, and maybe somehow even inch closer to possible death, but the wench McGonagall caught him), but six whole years of friendship with a nauseatingly gallant and snippy girl who ate textbooks and drank holy water for breakfast, lunch, and supper? And, by Merlin, when she yelled – it sent his ears ringing for several incurable minutes! No wonder the three of them were deaf to orders, life-threatening or not – they really _couldn't_ hear them!

With his fraying nerves, it was no wonder he concluded he truly needed his alone time or else he couldn't be held responsible to what he'd possibly do to her. But that was not to imply he didn't know what he'd get in return if he did happen to hex her – he'd seen her in action before. Hermione Granger had matured into quite the duelist that it frightened a massive population of their peers.

Perhaps even dented Potter's ego. Because, though Draco would never admit it even if his life depended on it, he himself had felt a bloom of fresh intimidation crop inside his chest when he'd seen her go at it. Hexes flying about all over the place like harebrained sugar-high birds, defense shields coming up before the spell even shot out of her opponent's wand – he'd even felt sorry for poor Lisa Turpin, her used-to-be-worthy-but-not-anymore challenger. She'd been sent to the hospital wing in seconds and Hermione Granger, luminously flushed with glory and pride, was completely unscathed.

The radiant look on her face that day lingered in Draco's mind as he opened his eyes, landing on where she'd been last night. There, up against that wall, glaring at him with the shadows from the fire playing across her face. He remembered the surprise he'd felt, almost overwhelmed, when Dumbledore had announced she might try and pursue Hero Boy. Simply because he couldn't imagine Mudblood Granger stepping out of her precious library or missing her classes that she absolutely, positively lived for to roguishly rescue her runaway Potter. But he supposed that she hadn't anything to lose in the first place. Weasley was comatose (thanks to Draco), everyone had resorted to treating her like a Medieval Times leper, and Hogwarts was still ill equipped to commence its prestigious swagger due to the attack. Dumbledore had even gone off to attend some mandatory meeting, so he said.

Draco looked out. He had always known life functioned like a chain reaction. One bad thing happens to one person, a happy one happens to another – but then five more people fall into a miserable hole. It was a corrupted balance – nay, not even a balance at all, but it was how the world worked. It was how life worked. And that meant it was to accepted, even fought against or denied, but it made no difference.

His gaze ran against the rustling trees, subconsciously waiting for a bushy head to pop out any moment now.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

After a few hours of sitting in the cave and thinking over his predicament, even dozing off a few times, he wandered out into the clearing outside that served as their somewhat sterile lawn. Dry patches of grass, weeds, trodden flat dirt, the severed and fallen log that he and Granger had sat on last night. He searched warily through the singsong movements of the leaves, hearing the faint chirps and calls of many eloquent birds far in the distance.

A grumbling noise erupted from his stomach, making him wince. He tried to ignore it at first, edging towards the line of the trees, craning his head and thoroughly searching for the face of his adversary through the broad gaps in the trees where he only saw an extension of the same trees. A sneer elaborately pressed onto his pale features, he sat down on the log, waiting for her.

She'd been gone four hours now. How long could she possibly need to wash her clothes and filter water? Even if she'd done it the Muggle way (Draco had forgotten to inform her that most spells failed to work out here because of the many magical vapors naturally released from the Kismet Oaks, intercepting the possible affects) it still couldn't take so long. Yet it was. And now an impatient Draco had no way of curing an unpleasant stomach cramp that was growing more unbearable by the minute.

After twenty minutes of more restless waiting, Draco stood with set eyes and a precise glower. Lost or not, he was not going to let himself starve just because Granger had been stupid enough to disregard all of his warnings. He strode back to the cave, standing on his side frozenly as he seriously deemed the stationary leather knapsack sitting directly across from him. No doubt it had to have food in it. He'd seen Granger count out their rations yesterday before carefully stowing it away. But as he stepped closer, he remembered their rules.

_"Rule number three: we stay on our own sides."_

"Oh, screw the rules," he snapped to no one in particular, cursing her voice inside of his head. But as he started to walk, nearly crossing the "invisible line" she had clearly distinguished last night, a wild siren began to shriek in his head, causing him to abruptly halt in his step. A realization crashed upon him like an anvil to the head. Had she set some charm or hex to prevent his breaking of rule number three? Would he get blasted back to his side or lose a limb if he crossed over? Could Granger somehow have predicted that he would want to rummage through her knapsack?

He tried to recall if he remembered anything else about last night. She hadn't set anything when he was conscious, but then again, he had too busy scorning her and falling asleep due to his extreme weariness. She might have set it when he was unconscious. But what were the odds, exactly? Had she really been serious about the "Your side, my side" ordeal? It wasn't as if he was a psychopathic pervert planning to urinate all over her walls or something. The rule had seemed fairly reasonable at first, but now it was looking ridiculous, especially with his belly crying out so painfully.

Tentatively he inched his foot closer, trying to bring to mind where exactly she had said her "invisible line" was. Slowly he did this, until he was quite certain he had already overlapped the beginning of his boundaries. It was then he had let out the sigh of relief that had been simmering in lungs before heading straight for the unguarded knapsack.

He devoured the roll he found not a second later, his hunger only mildly contented but he concluded it would do. He didn't want to go and eat all of their provisions in one day – they were horrendously limited, after all. He feared uncontrollable eating after having sit by Crabbe and Goyle at their meals for the last six years.

And then he sat again, waiting.

When the day had slightly lightened, signaling its descent into early noon, he felt the stir of annoyance and impatience poke at his snarled gut again. What could she possibly be _doing_? Had she gotten lost like he'd previously and so surely foretold? Or had she been lunch for some carnivorous animal? Both options were indeed unlucky. But – and he didn't know whether this was a good thing or not – he had an unusual feeling that she was still alive and not being digested in some creature's stomach sack or misplaced in the forest just yet. It was an eerie feeling, but Draco only shook it off, grabbing his wand tightly as he ventured out of the cave for the second time this day.

The influencing blend of anxiousness and boredom was not a very wise thing to go by, but he figured that perhaps he knew this forest better than Granger did and he would be able to find her – that, or hex her from behind, then run. That certainly ought to teach her a lesson or two. But he tuned his senses and made sure to sharpen his eyes, his wand at the ready for anything that could pounce at him. The wood looked harmless this time of day, but he always had this compelling and imprisoning idea of how beauty could so easily deceive, and it stuck to him like a scar, or a bad memory. He could never get rid of it.

He precariously exited the clearing, the cave slowly disappearing behind him through the thicket as he moved farther and farther in. The fallen leaves quietly flattened underneath his soles, as some cracked, and some completely crumbled away. He had to dodge some of the obtruding roots of the trees that had risen above the level ground and kept his eye out for some mischievous wood nymphs out to cause trouble.

Bright light was no longer beaming through the swaying leaves, the sky dulling into the color of a worn and faded blue that could only come with age. But there was a crisp sensation that coated the atmosphere today, like a cold sprinkle that seemed to immediately ease the tensed muscles in his body. But Draco, knowing the tricks of this forest, kept his guard up and his ears open.

He traveled north in a quick pace for a good fifteen minutes, then went northwest, following his instinct. He was listening in for the sound of a running stream; he knew there was one close by. The only question was: how close was it? The trees moved on common occasion and the illusionments could easily obscure it, but not the whole stream. And if it was covered, how could Granger possibly find it? Maybe she'd inherited Trelawney's hokey inner eye after all.

Draco froze when he heard the sound he'd been searching for. It was soft, supple, but continuous, and that was when he quickened his stride, heading west. He evaded the loose branches that hung down, the raised roots, determinedly pressing on. The sound became clearer, louder, and Draco felt the thumping in his chest pound harder – it was the stream.

Feeling a wash of victory as he started to run, pride swelling in his chest, he halted as he was finally within an eye's view of the stream. It was pure and untainted, gracefully running in an undisturbed motion. It glittered but shimmered like it held traces of silver, almost eerily glowing in the light of the forest. The trees had rooted themselves some paces away from the bank, and Draco hid himself behind one of the smooth trunks, mesmerized by the sense it struck inside of him. Peace. Contentment. Serenity.

Then he followed the stream upwards with his gaze, where he saw Granger. His breath unpredictably trafficked in the lodge of his throat, feeling an instant aridity cover his tongue and mouth, his silvery eyes widening.

There she was. Not eaten, not lost… but not so aptly dressed, either. She was close enough for him to see the intricate details of her drying curls hanging down to her shoulders; some already dry wisps creating a halo-like illusion around her head, making her seem angelic as she continued to wash something in her hands. Her face was soft and tranquil and it shocked Draco that she could even fix her face that way. Her pink lips smiling slightly, her dark lashes looking longer than he had ever cared to notice. She had a delicate camisole on, and the tips of her bosom peeked out from beneath the thin, muted fabric, making all the water from his body gather up and travel to his brain where his mind was now presently drowning.

She was as quiet as a deer, and maybe in a past life in this same wood, she would have been one. But Draco was no longer hearing the peacefulness or calm silence, or the mellifluous stream. Instead his heart had somehow, someway leapt to his ears and was drumming furiously, his entire body humming with sudden heat and he was suddenly feeling feverish. He couldn't even try to shake the feeling away with false pretenses of how horrible and ghastly she looked. His eyes were too busy taking in the slight rise of her shirt where it exposed about an accidental inch of creamy flesh, the removal of her usual Mother Teresa conservative garb revealing her true feminine figure.

He was overwhelmed and shocked. It was too major a thing to be taking in all in one second. The way her thin camisole so pleasingly tolerated the sensuous curve of her hips and waist, deliciously emphasized the shapely curvature of her breasts with a velvet-like shade… his brain would have boiled over by now if it hadn't already been shut down for possible health hazards. He'd always thought she was a late bloomer, as exciting as a piece of plain cardboard… but he was definitely and dizzily fazed now that he realized the cardboard had just been a costume. There was a _woman_ under there.

Somehow, he didn't even want to believe it.

He continued to stare at her, his jaw slack. He didn't know if he was ogling, but the objections of his pure-blood temperament could not compete against the way her flimsy cotton shirt unintentionally hugged her form. She almost looked harmless that way, silently kneeling beside the stream – incapable of scolding or shouting or disobeying orders of their school headmaster. But then the image of her blazing brown eyes started to inharmoniously construct in his view, and he was able to shove himself out of his reverie.

Feeling a queasy twisting in his stomach, he tried to tear his eyes away from her. He even started to condemn himself, trying with all his might to calm his excitedly buzzing hormones, as his soul finally flung back into his body, causing him to silently sputter and blink hard, trying to burn away the image of her looking so dangerously desirable from his currently unstable brain. The thought of Granger looking anything but the part of a filthy Mudblood was as incongruent as nothing else, thus he knew to furiously avoid such ideas. He was clever enough to know that it would only result in driving him mad.

He immediately sought to get away from this place as fast as he could, trying to erase any traces of her curvaceous shape or his new discovery of her heavenly breasts. He started to feel it creeping underneath his skin, heat bursting from his throbbing pores from such sinful muses, his chest flaring with poignant jets of rambunctious vibrations and foreign sensations that extended all the way to his neck, causing even his palms and fingers to break out in sweat. He did not like this feeling, and, trying to escape, he stepped back – but froze.

A sharp noise ricocheted through the air like a pistol shot, staccato. Horrified, Draco could see her still at the stream, her head snapping up at the sound as if it had leapt from her shoulders. Her once mellow face expressed shock and alarm, her arched brows wrinkling responsibly, her lips tightening and clamping shut. Her gaze ran along the woods across from her, and before her eyes could reach Draco's position – he ran.

The attention-wailing twig he had fractured crunched underneath his foot as he turned and sprinted, hearing the swift resonance of his fueled and hasty motions, swiping through the air like the frosty blade of a sword. He didn't know what direction he aimed to go – just ran as far as he could from the unanticipated and diseasing illustration of her, palpable but hopefully unreal at the same time. He didn't know why it had affected him like so – he'd seen much attractive women before wearing less clothes – but it was just the mind-reeling shock of finally seeing her for all that she was that hadn't managed to wear off just yet. Without her stack of books, without her conventional garments, without her off-putting feistiness. And what was she even doing without a bra? Could that possibly have been what she'd been washing?

He was certain she'd bathed in the stream from the refreshed look of her and the dampness of her hair. Of course _Scourgify_ wouldn't work from this forest's applicable laws – and she'd figured it out, too, so she'd decided to do it the way ancient Muggles did it. Nude. In the stream. God forbid what would have happened if Draco had happened to look for her then.

He shuddered, feeling chills that – oddly – sent warm tingles up his spine.

_'Stop thinking about it,'_ he sternly ordered. _'Get a hold of yourself.'_ However, in the running mill of his rushed thoughts, blurring together incoherently but all centered on one thing (Granger), neither so positive nor negative, when he finally did dive back into reality, his entire body jerked to a full stop.

He looked around; his breathing surfacing slightly lapsed. He listened hard but the flowing sound of the stream was far gone. He was surrounded by a different nature of silence – not forced, just organic and blending in perfectly with its surroundings. The slim trunks of the Kismet Oaks prominently stood everywhere, each looking exactly like the other, not a distinguishing mark on one. The moist ground was covered with leaves: dry, fresh, soft. They made a series of noises underneath his feet. Crunchy, pliable, mute. He heard the echoing calls of the birds. Could've even sworn he'd heard the puckish giggle of a wood nymph nearby.

He didn't recognize this area. He couldn't even remember which direction he had come from. South, perhaps? West? East?

Draco sighed heavily, feeling a sudden ominous lump in his throat.

Good Merlin, he was lost.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

He had been walking for hours. Slathered with perspiration, glowering, heading north, east, west. The trees rustled with the strengthening breezes and seemed to be laughing at him, chuckling ever so faintly with the tolling bells of the wind, their leaves showering down on him like mockery to a foolish jester banished from a kingdom. The sky swirled with deep strokes of a condescending night, taunting him and causing desperation to gurgle up his throat no matter how hard he tried to look on with his firm steely gaze. The imminent peril of his situation nipped at his fingertips, sharpening his shoulder blades as they were tautly fixed upwards to the towering Oaks.

He expertly slid down a skewback, the bottom pooled with multi-colored dead leaves and twigs, left there to decompose and become another layer of the earth. He wished he could recall how long he had wandered this place, trying to find his path back to the cave, but he had lost track of time along with everything else. He could have been searching this forest for an eternity – and if that long had passed already, he wouldn't have been surprised. Time continued on with no regards for anyone, not even him, and that only managed to graze his freshly cut wound, fanning his anger.

Draco Malfoy was a foul-tempered man. He was impatient, he was arrogant, he was hateful, he was heartless, he was merciless, he was cold, he was inconsiderate. He was a bad man to the core. And some, like old Dumbles, could refuse to believe that because he had some nutty belief system that prophesied evil prodigal sons returning all over the place seeking redemption. And then there were some, like Granger and her two friends and maybe even the rest of the population of the wizarding world, who begged to differ – believing that he was just a no-good, haughty scumbag with a heart of coal, clever kickbacks and a deep pocket and lots of Death Eater friends.

He didn't care for the former, but it was the former that had saved his skin – and had prodded his arse to his doom. But it was the second idea that was mostly true.

Many people had many sides to them, sometimes ostensible and sometimes not. But to Draco Malfoy there was only one side, and then to that, there were levels. To put it simply, all of the levels were not cut out for friendly socializing or people-petting. Because Draco had been raised a self-righteous, evil child. Perhaps not evil, just ill intentioned, but "evil" was the goal of dear old Lucius. He was eventually going to get there. And he had. It was just that – like many things – things hadn't gone quite as planned.

Like right now.

And like his father, he held grudges. _Unlike_ his father, however, he was not permitted to kill the person he held the grudge against.

And right now he was feeling very angry towards Hermione Granger.

He clenched his teeth, enraged, as the topic of her came up again. He felt his blood boil, steaming off the top of his head and shooting out of his ears. _She_ was the reason he was in this bloody forest in the first place. _She_ was the reason he was starving. _She_ was the reason he was lost. If only she refused the urge to be noble, just this once, and if only he could have turned down the proposition guaranteeing a new start and future. _What_ future? No semblance of a future seemed apparent to him now. With his rotten luck, some animal would come charging out and count him as supper. He could only hope, bitterness looking like icicle shards in his silver eyes, that the creature would have enough of an appetite to eat Granger too.

He hated her. Absolutely hated her. So much that he felt the dawning of a fever from his gnawing anger whenever he thought of her.

Thanks to her, it was now a ninety-nine percent possibility he would be lost in here for the rest of his life.

Just then, something whizzed into Draco's view from the right, startling him. His heart jumped and his breath was stolen from him before he was able to let out a silent sigh and scowled at the shimmering being in front of him.

A wood nymph. No bigger than the length of his hand, with glittering translucent wings that flitted about six hundred and fifty times a second. She had dark hair and hypnotizing, miniature emerald eyes and a slender body dressed in close-fitting fabrics of green, brown and red to help them easily hide in trees or bushes. Unfortunately, it was wood nymph reputation _not_ do a lot of hiding, which made them more than fairly annoying. They liked to meddle, liked to socialize, liked to stir up drama and trouble – or both, if they were lucky.

"Hullo Goldilocks," she purred, swinging her hips as she smirked at him. "What are you doing out here? Isn't Papa Bear's house that way?" she said, pointing to the left. Her green eyes glittered impishly.

"Actually, no, Tinkerbell," Draco snapped. "And it isn't any of your business, so just leave me the sod alone."

Draco tried to swat her away like a bothersome fly, but she only dodged his hand and blew him a raspberry. Annoyed, he started to continue onwards, thinking that she'd get tired of following him after a bit, even if it would be oddly uncharacteristic if she did.

But she flew after him, keeping up with his pace, scowling.

"_Tinkerbell_?" she scoffed. "Name's Plumeria, thanks." She started to grumble under her breath. "Tinkerbell was banished ages ago after running off with that Peter fellow."

Draco ignored her, sharply turning right to lose her, then going north again.

It didn't work.

"What are you doing all the way in our part of the woods?" she nosily asked him. "You hunting or something? Lose your mates? Or did they strand you here on purpose?" She clicked her tongue, giving him a look. "Wouldn't blame them. Seems like Goldy here has his knickers in quite a twist."

"Look, Tinks—"

"Plumeria," she sternly corrected.

"_Wood Nymph_," he said instead, his eyes flashing. "I don't care what your name is, and I most certainly don't care for the conversation, so why don't you be a doll and go ruin someone else's day?"

"I'll have you know," she chirped sharply, "I can be quite the helpful elf. Don't talk down to me just because you're larger than I am," she shouted, her voice coming out in tiny high-pitched bursts. "You wizards, always thinking you're king of the bloody world just because women fall at your feet – you're all just chauvinists who deserve the wood nymph trouble we cause!" She huffed, putting her hands on her hips. "No wonder that girl at the stream was complaining about the lot of you…"

Draco's attention was caught, his ears perking at her last remark. Immediately he thought of Granger. "Girl at the stream?"

"Oh, _now_ you take an interest!" she barked. "It's all about the shagging for you, _is it_? You dirty dogs need to get fixed, ye hear me—"

"Which way did she go?" he demanded, feeling hope start to rise inside of him.

"Why?" she coldly bit out.

"Because it's her fault I'm lost in the first place," he said through gritted teeth. "I need to get back to her, do you understand?"

She gave him a skeptical look, before tossing her head back, arms crossing against her chest, her small pointy nose in the air. "I don't help bad men."

Draco clenched his fists, breathing hard, telling himself that if he attempted to kill her with his bare hands he'd be even more lost. This was his chance. He _had_ to get her to tell him which way Granger went to the cave.

"Look," he told her, "she's dying."

The wood nymph froze, her eyes opening, revealing dimmed eyes. She was regarding him seriously now, a fierce look about her. She pursed her lips. "I don't believe you," she simply told him, though Draco could see from the look on her face that with a few more supporting details to hold his little story, he'd be able to crack her and get his information, go back to the cave, and hex Granger.

"She is," he solemnly elaborated, forcing his face into a meaningful expression of sorrow and gloom. "She doesn't know it yet, but the nurse back at Hogwarts found an unusual sickness in her system a few months ago. Tragic. Clever girl, top marks and everything. And she's only got two more months to live. She'd always dreamed of visiting a forest, so I took her here for her last wish. How do you think she'd feel if she was all alone, with me stuck out here, lost with no way of getting back to her?"

Her face softened with sympathy and kindness, but then doubt flashed across her expression again. "Well, why would you take her here in the first place? Everyone knows this forest is cast up with illusionment charms – why, you'd easily get lost – and the poor girl – is that why she was at the stream? Oh," she said loudly, "it's _your_ own fault for losing her."

"She wanted to play hide and seek," he sadly told her. "I was supposed to hide. Except she never found me."

The wood nymph was fully convinced now. Her little eyes were starting to well up with tiny tears. Draco was shocked upon seeing this. Wood nymphs were famed to be cunning, but this one was quite gullible. He assumed this might be an adolescent still, for adult nymphs were certainly more difficult in convincing than this one was.

She sniffled, teardrops the size of dust particles running down her cheeks. "Oh, fine," she told him, her voice breaking. "Follow me."

To his surprise, they weren't far from the cave. His ego even felt slightly bruised as she led him through the thicket, the trees, and overgrown bushes, and within twenty minutes or so Draco had stumbled across the clearing again. He felt relief course through him like a river spooling from his head to his toes, letting out a massive sigh that eased the rigid state of his body.

The sun had gone down already, causing the heavens to remarkably blush, the flaming orange sun peeking out from the tops of one of the trees.

"This is it," the nymph said with a kind smile. "The girl from the stream. You take good care of her, now. Don't let her get lost again. Be sure to tell her that you love her before those two months end, all right?" She sighed. "Tragic romances always keep the winters here longer."

Draco had only been half-listening for he had been too busy rejoicing in his rescue. But when what she had said finally reached his ears a few moments later, everything in his whole body iced over, his mouth drying out in record time. He looked up at the nymph, who was staring at the cave with a sad look in her minuscule eyes.

"Love her?" Draco choked out, not believing that was what she had said. "_Love_ her? I-I don't—"

"I'd hate to die without knowing someone out there had loved me all along," she whispered heartbrokenly, her hand to her chest and sighing sorrowfully.

"But I don't even—" said Draco, before he stopped. "I _don't_ love her," he clarified firmly.

"Oh, what have you got to lose?" she snapped impatiently, pointing a finger the size of a point of a needle straight at his nose. "She's dying in _two_ months. No use trying to deny it. Why else would you have taken her here for her last wish, all by yourself? You must be breaking about a hundred school rules!" she exclaimed. "Besides, I know love when I see it," she told him. "That's a gift among all us wood nymphs, especially in this particular wood."

"_I don't love her!"_ Draco said irritably.

"Fine, you go on denying it," she said stubbornly, puffing out her chest and planting her hands on her hips again. "But _I _know the truth, and eventually, _you_ will too. Now, I fare thee well, Goldilocks!" she huffed, before dashing away, and with a tinkling shimmer and a pungent scent of citrus and royal blossoms, she was gone.

Draco started to grumble under his breath as he walked through the barren clearing towards the cave. "Wood nymphs," he snarled. But he couldn't help but notice his heart was beating faster than usual and he only passed it off as a result from his countless hours of walking in the forest. He felt pressure rusting around his kneecaps, and his silver brows furrowed down. He felt pulsing hot knots, aches starting to twitch inside his tender leg muscles, and he clenched his teeth as the mouth of the cave came nearer and nearer.

She was sitting down when he saw her. Planted on her side, staring directly across to where his side was with a concerned look on her face, her brow thoughtfully furrowed. Draco felt annoyance as his eyes narrowed down into slits, but something else inside him also reacted violently to seeing her there, making his brain do something frighteningly similar to a double take. He gripped his wand tightly in his right hand, an immediate and impulsive sneer pinched on his pale face.

She noticed him from out of the corner of her eye when he was just a few paces away. She noticeably jumped, looking at him with wide and surprised eyes. Then she scrambled up, Draco feeling an unusual clenching inside his chest when he saw her worried expression, but only intensified his glower to prove he was immune to whatever ridiculous Gryffindor emotion she was showing now.

"Malfoy?" she said as she squinted her eyes, almost so solicitously. Then as he came nearer, he watched as her expression instantly gained its uncompromising essence back, as strict and stern as ever, and Draco met her eyes with a challenging look of imminent danger as well.

He stepped into the cave, and she rounded on him, impulsively crossing her arms tightly across her new patterned jumper, inching closer to him with her scolding eyes. Draco, wanting to make it crystal clear to her that he most certainly wasn't afraid of her, did not flinch or attempt to step away. He stayed right where he stood, like a cement-birthed flower, his facial tendons twisted into a threatening scowl.

"Where have you been?" she hissed. "It's been hours – I come back and you aren't even here – hadn't even bothered to blot down a quick note! You're _breaking_ rule number two! I thought you'd been kidnapped by the Death Eaters! Why didn't you write a note? You _know_ the rules!"

"_You're_ breaking rule number five," he snarled. "An arm's length, remember, Mudblood?" he quipped, pushing against her shoulder painfully as he walked deeper into the cave.

Hermione was unfazed, turning around with her burning eyes following him. "That isn't the point," she snapped to his back.

"Then what exactly _is_ the point?" he spat, impetuous, his voice rising, wheeling around. His towering, slender form radiated waves of heat from his fraying temper, his mouth hot and dry like a vindictive desert. "You're allowed to be gone for hours and hours and I'm _not_?"

"I wrote a note!"

"Fat lot that helps!"

"You _must_ follow the rules, Malfoy!" she stressed with ice in her voice. Even her faint freckles that sometimes appeared invisible were glowing angrily at him now. "Who knows what could happen out here? Who knows—"

Then, suddenly, as Draco glared at her with so much hate he could feel it trembling within the very marrow inside his scalding bones – he felt a large impact ram into his chest, like a sudden internal explosion. He felt something warm and cold then run down his spine at the same time, like drips from a leaking valve, making shivers break out all over his body and automatically cast his livid thoughts away into a fuzzy, nebulous black hole.

Her face was flushed rosy, her mouth warped angrily, but there were stars that smoldered like the brightest suns in her creased eyes. Her lips were wet and shone seductively as she unconsciously licked them, the tip of her pink tongue darting out for the quickest second and running along the luscious pillows of her mouth. Abruptly he felt his anger drain from his system him so swiftly that it left him dazed, paralyzed and frozen to his feet, almost confused.

An image of her at the stream intruded his thoughts like a burly trespasser. Dangerously equipped with vivid details of her flimsy camisole that made thousands of hazardous knots cluster up at the base of his throat, creamy curves like the smoothest, most delectable of mountains, breasts like a Greek Goddess hiding out as a bushy-haired mortal…. Her damp dark hair that slowly released droplets of water, falling down to the exposed valley of her shoulders and running down, sliding down to that sweet, perfect inch right above her bosom…

Heat raced through his body, making his entire body blush from such unwelcome and wicked thoughts. But they were uncontrollable, even ironic – him thinking about how sinfully attractive she had looked at the stream as she was currently so passionately yelling at him. He tried to shake them off, the blooming sensations that almost made him want to kill himself, but they held him prisoner while he struggled. He was wobbled by the image of her in that shirt again.

The timing was so wrong and puzzling for these thoughts to be triggered, but as Draco stared at her, his once anger-filled expression falling between stunned and bewildered, one question pulsed through his bloodstream like molten lava: could he possibly be _attracted_ to her?

Draco felt his blood run cold.

Granger? A _Mudblood_?

_Granger_?

He felt crackling tremors swim across every active pore on his skin. He immediately threw himself out of his disturbing visualizations, blinking hard, trying to furiously obliterate every single picture of her by the stream by his flooding rage and abhorrence of her. A negative and a positive could not coexist together, he was certain of that, so he gritted his teeth and her shouting filled his ears again, drowning out the whistle of the river rushing through his memories. He felt the same boiling emotion skyrocket to the very top of his skull again, and he fisted his trembling hands.

"_Granger_!" he exploded, fed up. His ears were ringing.

Hermione, stunned, was silenced. His voice ricocheted off of the expectant stone walls.

"_Shut up!"_ he finished, twice as loud than when he had called her name. His eyes were stormy and lit with fury, burning bright against his habitually passive face. And then, to his surprise as well as Granger's, he stormed right past her and out of the cave again, pressing his feet against the dirt with charged momentum, feeling the nailing aches in his knees. He expected for a whirl of dust to cloud behind him to somehow irritate the Gryffindor Nag, but the dirt had been so compacted for so long that it hung too heavily. Gravity had deemed them old friends.

"Malfoy!" she called out to him, sending the quiet birds resting on the trees to scatter out into the sky in fright. Now they were chirping, screeching in annoyance, some singing in high-pitched wails, streaking across the pink-tinged sky that was darkening with every passing minute, little by little. "Where in the world do you think you're going?" she shouted irritably.

But Draco was certain that if he listened close enough, he could hear a throaty desperation lying right underneath her infuriated shouts. He imagined her weeping after he'd gone, and a dry, triumphant smirk crept across his face.

"Away from you!" he yelled back, walking faster when he heard fueled running steps near him from behind.

She was breathing hard as she grabbed his arm, twisting him around. Her wild brown hair framed her face like a lioness, fluffed curls sticking out in some unflattering places, her lips tightly pressed together in an urgent manner. Her cinnamon eyes were vengeful and deep-set.

"You can't." Her voice was hoarse and cracked. She was whispering to him, ragged and crossly. Then her fingers tightened painfully on his arm. "You can't," she said more firmly and loudly. "You have to help me. You said—"

"I said no such thing," he growled, jerking his arm free from her grasp. He leaned in closer to her, feeling her hot breaths and his crash into a fiery collision, viciousness scrawled all over his face. "I made _no_ promises, Granger. I didn't say I was going to stay with you the whole way. I'm _fed up_." Fire erupted from the pit in his chest, unleashing mounting hate and resentment. His words came sharp and quick, lethal and meant. "I'm fed up with _you_, your crying, your scolds, your nags, your accusations – your _Potter_.

"All I wanted from you – from the beginning – was to suck it up," he snarled at her, feeling his temper burst and immerse him in his bottled-up fury. "Because it isn't going to get any easier. You _knew_ this wasn't going to be easy from the start, and your attitude has been really playing on my nerves – so why don't you just be useful for once and turn around, march back to that cave, and _shut up_? No amount of pleading is going to get you any more help from _me_, Granger. Because, believe it or not, _I_ wasn't the one making this little excursion of yours so difficult at all – it was you. _You_. And I'm sick of it."

The look on his face was fierce, passionate with annoyance and alive with anger. His eyes bore into her like sharpened swords.

Hermione was shaking, her eyes shrinking into enraged slits. "What do you think you're talking about, Malfoy? Why did you really decide out of the blue to accompany me, hmm? Did Dumbledore really force you to? Or are you doing this because you think just by doing this, guiding me to all the Death Eater tourist spots, that you're going to be able to buy favor from everyone and earn a spot in heaven? To save your wretched and doomed soul from the cells of Azkaban? Is that it? Well – you can forget it, Malfoy. You're going to fall in the spot right beside your father," she hissed. "Toiling in hell."

Draco's nostrils flared. He forcefully clenched his fists, trembling violently from her hard-striking retribution. The urge for violence surged through his fingers. He couldn't strangle her. Couldn't. Because if he did, then how would the Death Eaters torture her? How would she find her Potter dead and bleeding to death on the floor? The best revenge he could inflict on her was by letting her go right now – though the notion of hexing her had never seemed anymore appealing than now.

Self-control.

God, that was rubbish.

"_Fine_, if you feel that way," he spat in her face. Her eyes only narrowed at him as she stood steadfastly, undaunted. "As for me, I'd rather be lost for the rest of my life than spend another minute with a Mudblood like you."

And then he turned and walked away, feeling her eyes mentally burning holes into his back, watching with a heavy stone in his stomach as the looming wall of trees came closer and closer. But as he stepped unto the crisp foliage blanketing the forest floor, crackling but moist underneath his soles, leaving the clearing, she did not say a word. He left her, and she finally let him.

* * *

**Post-A/N**: …Is this the last time Draco and Hermione see each other? Are you serious? They haven't even gotten married yet! Tune in next time, and while you're already here, why don't you let me know what you think of this fic so far by pressing that lovely **Submit A Review** button? I promise you won't regret it! 


	6. Ten Nimble Fingers

**A/N:** Hmm, what shall happen to Draco? Will he be led back to Hermione? What about those big bad creatures he keeps talking about? So many questions! Know how you'll get the answers? By reading!

**Chapter Six: Ten Nimble Fingers**

In three hours, the sky had already matured into a menacing cloak of infinite darkness that deceivingly enlarged every tree, animated every shadow, shook every bush, and would have made almost every wandering human paroxysmal and convulsive.

Draco had not lapsed into a state of spastics just yet. He was calm, completely composed, walking through the woods and darkness, only gracefully shifting his gaze when something dark and massive threateningly twitched from the corner of his eye. Fright was ill steady in his system after years of Death Eaters and Dark Marks and Lucius. Thus, it was only appropriate he take pride in the fact that any other person would be scared straight out of their wits, especially with him just walking out without a single thread of a plan of action in hand. These woods were fickle, dangerous, and in no doubt deceiving just about to any wizard's eye. But he only continued to walk on, his strides incensed and furious, his silver eyes dazzling beneath the reflection of the stars eluding through the awning shade of the menacing trees.

He was fuming. Anger boiled and bubbled underneath the surface of his pale skin, shredding his logical side, dissolving it amongst his vicious feelings of booming hatred and bitterness. It ran through his veins like a cold-blooded current, rampaging like an irrepressible beast. The image of Granger materialized in his swarm of thoughts and his fists clenched until his knuckles threatened to rip out from the numbed skin of his iced hands.

Yet no matter how much he insisted on his hate for her, his pure revulsion, he could still hear the running sound of the gliding waters pounding in his ears. Millions of particles that he repeatedly tried to hammer to away flew back in place like magnetic beings, combining like a puzzle to create the heart-pulsing image of her face. They were like billions of ants. Indestructible particles, flocking and rushing together, brimming, crawling feverishly under and in his skin. His stomach lurched violently, almost making him sick. The chilly wind scraped down the bone of his neck.

A dark feeling passed over him like an ominous cloud. Terrible and gut wrenching that it almost devastated him.

Future.

Then Draco felt something heave through his limbs, his head jerking straight. Sharp shivers rippled through his entire body, locking up his throat. His breaths became restricted by the angry, tightening rope around his lungs as he immediately stopped in the middle of the wood, his wary eyes looking around. He felt goose bumps peak all over his skin, prickling underneath his clothes, cautiously searching through the darkness even though all he could make out were the silhouettes of trees that had clumped together around him. It even seemed as if they had caged him in.

Swallowing hard, he walked on, but the sensation of someone watching him swiftly attempted to attune his faltering brain. He gripped his wand tightly in his hand, the wood slicing into his palm, his _Lumos_ light dimming at his command. Draco was alert for any motion from the corner of his eyes, clearing out his mind to focus on what was watching and following him. The particles scurried, hiding behind the current sense of fear and danger burgeoning inside him now.

The leaves rustled. There was a gentle warm breeze that intruded the cold air, spiraling all around Draco before suddenly weighing down his ankles. His eyes widened, a cut gasp pushed out from the middle of his throat, trying to run, and then –

Out of the darkness leapt a great beast, Draco catching a flash of its open mouth of gleaming treacherous teeth, hearing its loud growl roar in his pounding ears, pouncing on him with great speed and agility. With a loud yelp of distress he crashed down to the ground; eyes squinted closed from the pain of its long claws piercing into his skin, his wand flying from his hand from the unexpected attack. His conjured light faded slowly in the distance like a dying star.

He struggled blindly, but in his desperate impulse of trying to push the creature away, his hands only grazed its wide razor-lined jaw, yelling out in pain as the animal's teeth easily tore through his skin. The beast was laying on top of him, pinning him down with its crushing weight, squeezing his lungs, his limbs, his legs. Its hot and acrid breath burned Draco's face like acid, its raptor-like claws stabbing into the flesh of his stomach and shoulders. He tried to kick it away, punch it away with his bloodied hands, but it was too strong and Draco's restless resistance only gained him more wounds.

His heart was pounding so furiously in his chest that he felt sour blood running up the closing pipe of his throat, clogging up his lungs and causing him to cough out thick, metallic crimson clumps. Warm liquid was dribbling down the corners of his mouth as he drew his fist back and threw it forward with as much force as he could muster in his loss of sight. The beast then roared with pain and surprise, Draco feeling a moist coat tingling on his knuckles and fingers, instantly knowing that he had struck the animal in its eye.

The creature's grasp loosened and Draco, feeling it step off of him, kicked, feeling the warm muscle of its stomach contract underneath the toe of his shoe, digging into its soft abdomen. The animal gave out another deafening call, Draco cringing as the loud sound caused violent convulsions in his body, gritting his teeth as he felt his eardrums almost explode from the unseen monster's infuriated cry.

Just then, as Draco scrambled to get back on his feet, blindly groping the floor for his wand, he shouted out in excruciating torture and shock as the animal pounced again. It dug his claws deep inside Draco's stomach, Draco crying out as he felt it puncture his tender organs, feeling its rough breaths against his face that felt like serrated knives skinning him alive. Then the monster opened its jaws, tilting its hairy head back to the dark sky, bellowing a thunderous and strident roar, Draco feeling lightheaded and sick from the feeling that coursed through him as he realized what the animal's howl meant: victory.

Not another second later, Draco felt its jaws sink into his body, shouting in pain as its fangs burrowed deep inside him, the deadly venom of its mordant saliva releasing into Draco's bloodstream and flesh. He felt fear scream like a siren inside his head, brightly flashing that it was almost suffocating and surreal, but as he reached out his arm, desperately skimming his trembling fingers across the flaked ground, he finally felt something slender and smooth recognizable even to his fingertips. Feeling an electrifying jolt shoot up his arm, he rapidly snatched it up. He closed his eyes tightly, silently begging as the pain started to numb his entire body.

_'Please,'_ he heard himself say, his ebbing voice distant and far away. The pulse throbbing in his brain was beginning to soften, fading away, his once-swarming thoughts disintegrating into the toxic and still night. Bloodied and skinned fingers tightly clutched his wand. '_Just this once,_' he prayed silently, then raised his wand to the best of his ability, the crook of his elbow quaking with the spasms of a broken bone, yelling out the first spell he could think of, his world spinning and suddenly bursting with light and detonating stars.

Brilliant sparks flew from the tip of his wand, shooting, spewing. It made popping noises, shrill and boisterous, screaming and lighting up the whole forest. To Draco, he saw a blurry rainbow of glittering fireworks dancing all around him, like nature-defying supernovas, breathing as hard as he could, feeling as if the animal had gored a hole through his lungs. Suddenly, the weight crushing his body slowly retreated. The shooting pain in his side, of teeth, of poison, began to dull. He was sweaty and sticky, his blood soaking his robes and garments, his legs painfully anesthetized.

Just then, he saw a blur of something dark soar through his hazy vision. He heard more growling, biting, snarling. They sounded like brawling wild dogs. But Draco's eyelids began to close from their sudden weight, his heart warm but beating brokenly inside his shattered chest. He felt the splintered cracks in his bones, the bleeding and infected gaping wounds on his stomach. The wind was too cold, but it soon became strangely balmy and soothing. The muffled sounds of his labored and difficult breathing was rapidly dying away.

Then he saw glowing yellow eyes, piercing through the darkness. They were familiar. Very familiar.

Suffocating fear had begun to pool inside him.

Death.

He was dying. He hadn't imagined death to be like this at all. Soothing, welcoming. He hadn't expected to leave the pain behind so quickly. He felt the poison shooting through his veins, shutting down his brain and the other functional areas of his body, but a lullaby soon filled his freezing skull and he found it so hard to care.

He was dying.

Within that mere moment of time, that poignant flicker of a second, voices started to fill in, flowing into that hollow white room. They buzzed inside his head, and then – pictures. Memories. His mother, smiling at him. His father, scowling at him. His Head of House, shaking his head in disappointment. Dumbledore, merrily smiling at him with his wrinkled face. The Death Eaters, crowding around him. The Dark Lord, grinning evilly down at him, his bony and scabbed hand outstretched… Potter and Weasley, laughing.

Then Granger. Glowering with blazing brown eyes.

Then Granger again. At the stream, in her gauzy camisole, her rosy cheeks.

Then darkness.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

He awoke in a strange dreamy mindset, his once dazzling silver eyes now dull and cloudy. Night had passed and Draco found himself re-discovering the bright, glorious optimism of late morning. The formerly segueing trees were still and smeared against each other like a soggy painting, the ground unsteady and sinking beneath him. He felt peculiar, almost like he was looking through somebody else's eyes – not his own. The scenery before him looked as if it had gone through the mixer or just a picture hosed down by gallons of water, causing the colors to run down and run together into an ugly, messy blur. But it felt abnormal, too. His ears felt encased and he couldn't hear properly, all he could really hear was a faint whispering of the breeze that he felt coolly kissing his shining, warm face and his dull, pounding heartbeats. Rhythmic.

He was alive.

He remembered waking up a few times during the night, but somehow, even with the bipolar dropping and erratic rising temperatures of the night, he'd always lolled off again. He'd thought it was his last bout of physical punishment before he'd left the mortal world, ergo the shimmery illusory sense it always arrived in. But he did recall the pain that greeted him every time he regained consciousness for those two painful seconds before blacking out once more: burning, intense, unforgiving. And always, in that last half of a millisecond, he'd remembered that damned ferocious animal and what he'd done. However, before he could get into any real thoughtful contemplating, a swift but heavy lullaby managed to sweep him off again, just in time.

But as his torturously heavy lids revealed the same scene again, only with more light, the drugged wave of unconsciousness he'd gotten used to by now had officially ended its visiting hours.

So Draco lay there, trying to kick-start the gears and processing wheels inside his drowsy brain again to try and clear his botched vision, but even the course seemed sluggish and misinterpreted. His eyesight did not improve as he'd hoped at all, and if his body and poison-induced mind weren't already as bogged down with the animal's injection of lethal venom, he'd probably have tried and suffered more. He tried to move his arms and with straining effort that caused tinny rockets of spurting pain through his tender limbs and stomach, he was able to reach his wand, clutching it beside him as if somehow it would react naturally to his state of distress and heal him.

But even if there was a possibility of it working, the chances of it saving him were instantaneously eaten away. He was going to die in this forest, he was certain of it. It was almost as if it was written in the stars – the trees had even probably known it the moment he stepped in the enchanted wood. But then a flash of memory came to him, like the short, stunning moment of silver lightning streaking across the opaque sky. He remembered somebody – no, some_thing _dragging him. He remembered the feel of coarse and rough, grainy soil underneath his skin, getting into his shirt, claws, teeth nipping, growling… Like little tidbits of a puzzle, pouncing at him all at once like a massive, swelling surf.

Flash!

He remembered being knocked against the tree ever so subtly and coughing out enough blood to save a dying soldier.

Flash!

Yellow, almost solicitous glowing eyes.

Flash!

Anger. Pushing Granger and walking out, yelling.

Flash!

The animal pouncing on him, its claws like jagged daggers, stabbing into his flesh. Its jaws, full of sharp teeth, glistening and hot, diving down into his side and clamping down hard.

Flash!

Smoldering, intense, sweltering pain. His ears ringing. Blood all over his clothes, his arms, his stomach, his neck.

Flash!

Granger at the stream in a gauzy vision that could easily be every Gryffindor boy's wet dream.

Flash!

A treacherous emotion. Unfamiliar. Underlying, lurking.

Guilt.

Draco winced to the best of his ability although his facial tendons disagreed with twinges of pain, suddenly feeling a wave of thick clinging heat. Sweat coated every inch of his skin, his dirtied shirt moist, his bloodied hair soaked. He looked down and he saw a massive dried brown stain down his front, signifying his dangerous blood loss. But then why hadn't he bled to death? Why hadn't he died by now, surrounded by his own growing pool of blood? Swallowing bile, phlegm-like fluid down his scratchy and aching throat, he firmly closed his eyes and reluctantly worked up the courage to see the damage done. Letting out a deep sigh, his face looking slightly delirious, a fever creeping up his neck and chest, he raised his awkwardly heavy arm, seeing the slowly healing scabs on his fingers, and lifted his shirt.

The sight was undoubtedly gruesome, one of the most gruesome he'd ever seen, although there wasn't much blood anymore. The creature's saliva and poison had left burn marks on his milky abdomen, and he could even see some still sizzling. The bite wound was terrible to look at, even for him. It was a painful purple-blue, bruised and tender, swollen. The venom had sealed it up as he could see the disturbing crusted blood, but by the hue of his wound he knew that certainly wasn't a good thing. It was not a normal color, not at all. Just like the rest of the forest, it seemed enchanted as well.

He remembered the short series of lessons they'd had on self-survival and tidbits of the Healing lessons Hogwarts had hosted for the seventh and sixth years Snape had forced him into. It almost made him want to smirk, the way that dear old Severus had known Draco was going to get attacked by some enormous beast, and eventually die from its poison now wreaking havoc in his bloodstream. But what good was it going to do now, really? He could hardly move his arms and legs, from which he supposed was because the animal's toxin and attack had partially paralyzed him. He was having trouble breathing, his sight had flown away with his perfect health… what else was left for him to do but just lay here and wait for his death? However slow and torturous might that be? Draco knew pain. He could handle pain.

He tried to shift himself, his back sore against the rigid trunk he had been thrown against. He was feeling anxious. He'd thought last night had been a sure deal: him dying and leaving all this rubbish once and for all. It seemed a far better concept than actually living and going through it all. Thinking that, he wanted to laugh; he never thought he'd ever see the day that he'd choose dying over living. But there were terrible things in store for the living, now, what with the complex swirl of sin and hatred and discreet manipulations misting all around like an ever-present ghost. Babies were now born with greed and tempers. The world had finally caught fire.

But then he had a thought that maybe dying was too good a finale for him, and grunted in sadistic amusement when he concurred. That was how he knew he was going to end up living, miserably. But there had to be a catch for living – torture, perhaps, or he'd lose his sanity, which had always been a feasible idea. But go mad after all he'd gone through? After all he'd seen? It seemed vastly unlikely now. It would be too kind.

And so he waited, oblivious to his surroundings due to the fact that his shaken brain was refusing any more oxygen to straighten his skull. He blurrily anticipated a bumbling animal to come stumbling out any moment, sniffing at the odor of rotting flesh – but Draco knew no animal would eat him. He was poisoned. But he took pleasure in the thought of taking down another being with him if it came to be.

Hours passed, and his world began to spin. His breathing grew erratic and desperate, the air becoming hot and sweet to his failing lungs. His eyelids became heavy and his eyes grew dry, bloodshot and weak. He was almost growing delirious, when, at last, a sashay of motion, skittered in his vision, and he was aware of another presence. He could make out the outline of a person, but it was glowing, as if it had been baptized in God's holy presence. Its aura was blinding but soothing and breathtaking at the same time, and he was only vaguely aware of the dazed smile that was slowly trickling across his perspired face.

He thought an angel had been sent down to him – but he remembered how ridiculous that was. Angels and Draco did not go together at all. And then his mind dug up an idea he remembered from when he was just a small boy. The Earth Goddess. Godly and mystical, beautiful in every possible way. Not only a palpable beauty – a beauty that no one could ever articulate through any music, poetry, or literature. His kind of beauty.

And then she came closer to him, this bright Goddess-like being, before she stopped suddenly. Then a voice floated to him, fluttering almost, with the wind.

"Malfoy?"

Something inside Draco tensed once he fully recognized the word – his surname – and his situation. His brain then began to send out more hectic messages, crackling through his body like little wires of power, causing his eyes to widen and his eyesight to sharpen a little, rubbing out the bothersome hazy blots and wistful luster.

Because never, never in his dreams, stupid boyhood or not, had his Earth Goddess called him "Malfoy."

The voice was familiar, and as she came closer he could make out her peering pale face as she stiffened. He registered her presence before him now – Granger.

Good God, his Earth Goddess was Granger!

His first bleary idea was that the poison was now causing him to hallucinate, but as long, drawn-out seconds passed and the image of her didn't disappear – didn't even wobble – he mentally chuckled at his luck. So this was his catch. He would live, but he had to endure the pain and humiliation of Granger being his savior.

No offense to The Man, but he preferred dying or being eaten alive by some wild boar.

"Out flower-picking, were you?" he grunted, spying the bundle of weeds in her arm. He tried to turn his head so that she could not see his expression as he tried to carry along with fate's intentional degradation, but his attempt was ill met and was instead greeted with neck pain from his warped muscles.

Hermione pursed her tightening lips, giving him a serious look that quickly transformed into a glower of revulsion and anger.

"Wrong," she replied, her tone clipped and contemptuous. She looked as if she could spit acid. "Herbs."

And then Draco watched with dread churning in his stomach as her lips gradually stretched into a smirk, a malicious one he wasn't used to seeing from her, full of a sick satisfaction he didn't even know Gryffindors could feel, let alone express. It was a Slytherin trait, finding grotesque joy in another's painful suffering and torment. And yet, here was Hermione Granger with a bouquet of herbs on her arm, her facial tendons gladly complying with her pride in this moment of mortification and karma with such ease. She was practically shining.

With one last look at him, she began to turn away, prepared to leave him there on the rotting forest floor.

"Granger," he called aloud, his throat parched and sore. It was strange as his rough, scraggly voice reached his own ears, seeming foreign and not his own, and he felt as if he hadn't heard himself speak for years.

He watched as she froze and stayed there for a moment, waiting for whatever it could possibly be that he wanted to say to her. Draco let out an exhausting sigh that sent a pain through his side, concentrating on the bright fabric of her cotton jumper. "Wait."

And so she waited, her back still to him. He could sense her growing impatience and remarkable curiosity as if it radiated from her body like heat rays from the sun.

He swallowed hard, only tasting the thick blood on his texturized tongue. It felt like slimy sandpaper. He didn't have enough strength to protest against destiny. "About last night… I was angry… I didn't mean to—"

Then she suddenly wheeled around, surprising him. She was furious, her eyes gleaming with justified anger. "Tell me why I shouldn't leave you out here to rot," she spat. "Give me one good reason. Because as far as I can see, I don't owe you any favors. _You_ were the one who left _me_. You were the one who just walked out, disregarding our rules and agreements, not caring if I found my way out or not. No, you did it because you were angry – you did it because you were selfish. Tell me," she seethed, shuddering with rage, "why I shouldn't do the same to you."

He smirked at her in his knowing, his first notable look at her not exactly full of spite. "Well, that's easy, Granger," he answered, his voice still coarse and weak. "Because you aren't me."

She was silent for a second, just staring at him. Her defiant, alive orbs then flickered, signaling to him that he'd said the right thing, even though she was trying her best not to show it. He hadn't fully convinced her yet – he still had enough of his cerebral cortex sober to know that much. So he mustered up his vocal capabilities in his current wretched state, wincing as he felt another shoot of pain jolt through his body, and decided that for the sake of his mangled corpse he was going to sacrifice a bit of his pride.

A painful compromise more than anything else.

"Look, I need a little help, here, Granger," he managed to say. The mere words tasted vile to him. "I know we aren't friends and you most definitely don't care about me or trust me, but believe it or not – we're alone out here. Potter's gone, Weasley's in a coma – you've got no one. _I've_ got no one. Maybe it's time we started working on that inter-House unity. Just a little practice couldn't hurt. It certainly couldn't hurt as much as this hurts right now." He didn't know if he was talking about the wounds that were now throbbing on his stomach or the fact that he'd literally had to force those words out from his throat, but it was the best he could do when half of his brain was crippled over by beast venom.

She didn't say anything for a moment, just looking at him with a swirling, turbulent amalgam of emotions in her bottomless eyes. Draco could swear they were like fiery embers, flickers from a candle when blown by an unseen wind – just eruptions of different things that he knew she tried to keep held back. He couldn't decipher her artful feelings because everything around him appeared abstract now. It could have been the sudden pounding in his head, the potent vertigo that spun him 'round and 'round like he had just hitched a ride on a rapid, never-ending carousel, or the fact that his lungs started to fill up with a mordant liquid that caused him to cough and sputter, sprinkling his shirt with fresh spots of crimson blood. Or even the tumultuous collision of fear and pain and dread and even – the most incongruent of all – hope that began to whirl inside him like a dodgy tornado. Because, all of a sudden, he was hoping she'd show some of that Gryffindor kindness they were famous for. Righteous heroics. She was one of them, right? A hero? He was a victim now, being pulled apart by pain and fate in a corollary of Tug of War – didn't he need saving, too?

He bit down hard on his swollen lip as his vision was suddenly blurred over by a great spasm of pain shooting through his stomach. He felt the bite wound violently bubble like feisty hatchlings trying to escape their prison of fluid and shell, letting out a cry as another blinding dart tore through his organs. By the time it ended, he was sweating profusely, his breaths broken but hard. He could hardly open his eyes but once he did, she was still standing there, watching him. He could only make out the dark smudge of her body, like a misplaced shadow in the bright forest.

She seemed farther away now, somehow. But maybe it was just the drunken haze filling his head, as he noticed the trees started to appear millions of miles away as well.

Hermione looked at him and couldn't help but feel a niggling twinge of pity. His sickly, ashen face glistened from perspiration and it wasn't even more than sixty degrees out. His hair was mussed and filthy, streaked crimson with blood, and his body was blanketed in the mixture of sweat, dirt, dry blood, sticks and leaves. She'd never seen him in a more miserable condition in her life, and while she wanted to so terribly just laugh and ridicule him, she found that she couldn't. It would be like going against everything she was.

If she were just to stand there and take obvious delight in his serious injuries, maybe even set up a little picnic for herself – she would be just like him. Maybe even worse. It was what a Slytherin would do. And Hermione, Merlin help her, would never be a Slytherin, even if it meant having to choose between that and a blast-ended skrewt.

She wanted to just walk away and leave him there to rot or maybe, if fate was on his side today, let him get eaten by some overgrown skunk. But that was just as Slytherin as her first prospect, which grossly disappointed her.

Because he was right. She wasn't him. Not even a little bit.

"You deserve this, you know," she coldly informed him, though there was a continuance of discomfort from her knotting, guilt-induced stomach muscles as she watched the pained look on his face, her enemy stifling back yells of pain by biting down hard on his tongue or clamping his jaw together. "It's justice. It's karma."

She tried to say it with conviction, to make sure that it drilled into his stubborn mule ears and really got to where it was tender, but her brows furrowed together in worry without her consent when she saw that he was in obvious excruciating pain. She couldn't let him die even if he deserved it more than anyone else. She needed him to get out of this forest alive and needed him to lead her to the Death Eaters, and hopefully, to Harry. She, herself, would be just as good as dead if she let him die.

Before she knew it, she had rapidly walked to his side, set down her things in haste urgency, and got down on her knees. Fueled by her frantic thoughts of desperation and fear of him dying and leaving her here all alone without a way out of this deceiving wood and a way to Harry, she grabbed his wrist. Feeling his warm skin and sweat, his skin paler than she had ever seen before, she pressed her fingers down and felt his pulse. It was faint at first, then strong, and then it almost dulled away into nothing altogether. _Thump, thump, thump_. It got strong again. There was something definitely wrong with him: his pulse was sporadic.

"Oh, Merlin, Malfoy," she muttered, nearly panicked. She looked at him, his face crumpled in pain, his chest shuddering with his breaths that almost sounded as if they were painful. "What on earth have you gotten yourself into now?" she asked him, though she was certain there was a good possibility he wasn't hearing her at all. "Are you _trying_ to kill yourself?"

Then his wounded expression was slowly interrupted by the faint beginnings of a smirk, and Hermione knew that he had heard her. Hermione, relieved that at least he wasn't near the brink of death just yet that he could still smirk in the most hopeless situations, silently sighed to herself as her buzzing fingers nervously fumbled with his shirt buttons. She had spied the grotesque acre-like bloodstain earlier when she had first seen him, and that was how she knew quite unquestionably he had either gotten mauled or attacked by some animal.

It was the correct thing to do – checking the wound – and she knew this without a single sketchy doubt because of the extra-credit Healing classes she had taken at Hogwarts. But Hermione, though entirely determined and concentrated on stealing him from the entry gates of death, had never thought she'd have to be saving _Draco Malfoy_ in such a circumstance. She knew a time would come when the skills and knowledge she'd learned would be needed, but even she felt a bit flustered when his shirt opened before her eyes as she undid them one by one, as fast as she could. She even wanted to look away or perhaps blink down hard to avoid seeing any inch of his skin, but instead only held her breath and finally undid the last button.

Trying to keep a straight head on her shoulders and recall every detail of those Healing classes, as well as strangling her primitive brain that only knew animal instincts and thoughts that were completely unsuitable in such a dire situation, she brushed aside his shirt. And as she did, her eyes taking in the awful wound gaping on his side, it was a sure fact that all of the Healer skills in the world could not have helped her from flinching then.

It was, without a doubt, ugly. It was massive, bigger than both of her fists together, and bruised a ghastly dark purple and blue against his smooth ivory skin. And as she continued to stare at it in shock and nausea, she sucked in a sharp gasp as it began to bubble. It looked as if something was boiling beneath his skin, or in his skin – she didn't know. But her head snapped up as Draco gritted out a growl, tensing from the pain. Without thinking, as if she knew the pain would last a length more than she knew he could bear, she grabbed his hand and he instantly squeezed it hard as he let out a sharp and suffering hiss. Hermione felt as if he could have snapped her fingers in half.

She could see the horrible bite scars sealed with dried blood. From just looking at it she could tell they were much too deep to be treated with mere scratches-and-cuts medicine. It was only now as she watched him writhe in pain, crushing her hand with an iron force, her mind and chest suddenly plunging into an overwhelming whole new level of fear and panic and urgency, that she fully comprehended the seriousness of this situation. She couldn't let him die. She had to do whatever she had to do to treat his wound because if she didn't, he would die.

All of a sudden, all of the scars and lingering scabs and grazes from their toxic history were washed away in an instant. Her ever-long grudge against him for his evil deeds, lifestyle, beliefs and future had thinned away in a mere fifth of a second and was thrown away into a nebulous black space ahead of her – just somewhere she couldn't see and where it couldn't be looking over her shoulder any time soon. For the moment, she had a goal without any barriers or pauses of hesitation or bad memories. His malignant means, true or not, past or present, was tucked away very deep inside her that she wasn't even sure it would be able to swim back to the surface. She knew what she had to do, and that was all that mattered.

She slipped her hand out from his; subconsciously missing the warmth and pressure he had been giving to her – as if, by the connection of their fingers and palms, he was telling her exactly what he needed. Furiously digging into her knapsack, she brought out a pocketknife. His eyes wearily fluttered open, half-mast, but when he saw what she was holding his face became grim. His muscles tensed.

"You're poisoned," she quietly told him, graveness glimmering darkly inside her eyes. "It's infected. I have to treat it or… or you'll—"

"Just do it," he snapped, though his imperious demand only came out sounding weak and pathetic.

Hermione nodded, biting her lip. But instead put down the knife; taking out a canteen of water she had refilled from the stream and scooted closer to him, leaning in so close that Draco, even as delirious as he was, stiffened from surprise.

Draco's once-shut eyes fluttered as he felt the heat of her body, supple and subtle but frighteningly pleasing in every possible way, pressing close to his. He then realized what she was trying to do as he felt her grip a good handful of his shirt. She was trying to take off his shirt, reaching behind him, perhaps to use that to bandage him later on.

His thoughts were adrift in his fevered brain, intoxicated by something strong and heavy, but it did not seem to impair his sense of smell or touch. He uncharacteristically warmed when he felt her soft breasts molding against the firm broadness of his chest, the scent of her wild hair pervading his nose. She smelled of exotic flowers, honey, and the spicy, fresh musk of nature.

_Just like,_ he thought fuzzily and quite drunkenly, _my Earth Goddess_. He recognized the smell and once he'd smelt her, his mind immediately skittered back to his Godly hallucination. His eyelids trembled closed and he saw specks of gold glittering like the sea at sundown inside the stirring darkness.

Then he felt something on his cheek, though it was very fast that he didn't know if he'd imagined it or not. But one second he was still hearing her almost frantic breaths caressing the sensitive flesh of his neck, then she'd turned her head so quickly and was so near to his face that her pillowy, moist lips had brushed against his cheek for the quickest sixth of a second. He didn't know if it was just his escalating fever, but now his face began to simultaneously burn as well.

Had Draco been of sound mind he would have undoubtedly warded off all of such reactions or thoughts about his adversary, but even in his slurring predicament he knew how far off he was. He was in the in-between sliver, residing right amid consciousness and unconsciousness, the little inch where everything seemed ambiguous and unfocused and was either smaller or bigger than they really were. Nothing seemed how it truly was – but how his weakening eyes perceived them, and now he couldn't even be certain whether he was just having delusions or he was just that ill. But he still felt her near, that radiating, almost comforting heat, and her dainty hands became pats of human attention that was unraveling before him as well.

Hermione, his shirt in her hand, glanced with determination at his slick, sculpted chest. Pale as snow, as they say. But she saw all sorts of cuts across his skin, none of them nearly as serious, but red and irritated from dirt and sweat. She put down his shirt and rapidly clutched the pocketknife, flipping it so that the blade snapped out, gleaming in all its stainless steel pride when caught in the right light. She tentatively looked at his face – she could feel that his fever was rising quickly –and clutched one of his legs to hold him down, letting out a shaky breath.

"All right, Malfoy, this is going to hurt," she told him, though she was sure he could no longer interpret what she was saying; then lowered the blade, still as sharp as the day she had gotten it, and pressed it firmly against the middle of his bubbling bite. A forced look of determination fitted itself on her face as she depressed the knife and watched its sharp edge sink into his glistening skin, moving it steadily down as the sliver of blood and pus erupted from the cut.

Draco hissed again, his head jerking up. Hermione pressed down on his leg more securely, trying to calm him, knowing that there was still more pain to come. Once he had lain limp again, she winced as she caught sight of the film of white poison inside his wound, and ripped a part of his shirt to wipe away the blood and pus. Hermione gasped when it ate the fabric like acid.

She snatched up her canteen and retrieved a small blue bottle out of her knapsack, twisting the cap free from the bottle and with her fingers, carefully opened up Draco's wound and allowed drops from the bottle to reach the poison. Draco's body had another spasm as he cried out, the potion sizzling inside him and eating away all of the poison. But with every serious potion there was always a catch – it was burning bits of him, too, along with the venom. She had to hold him down again and could only imagine how it felt to feel like every inch of your skin was burning, every vein, every bone and organ. She'd been hesitant to use it on him, but it was imperative to rid him of the infection, imperative if she wanted him to live.

Just then, Hermione felt pain on her fingertips. Her eyes were immediately drawn to her fingers and she frowned, seeing some of the venom had gotten on her fingers too, burning away her outer skin and exposing raw, tender pink flesh. Gritting her teeth in pain, she simply wiped it on Draco's shirt and decided she would bandage it later.

Once the serum was done, Hermione uncapped her canteen and washed his wound, relieved at the more normal color it was starting to fade into. It was starting to close up already, another special effect of the medicine, as it started to pucker and swell. Hermione retrieved ointment from her bag and slathered it on the rather nasty cuts he had on his chest and arms, too, and upon doing so stumbled across the discovery of his broken arm. With a great deal of thinking and trying to remember exactly how to make a sling, she ripped one of her own extra shirts to create one for him.

She tore his shirt with the help of her teeth, wrapping it around him with great difficulty to protect his wound until it was completely healed, knotting it neatly when she was finished and letting out a deep sigh as she looked down on him. All healed.

She almost found herself smiling. She had done all that without a wand! It was amazing what exact situations like theirs could drive human beings to. It was astounding, really. She had so simply let go of their complex history and animosity; the primitive knowledge inside her screamed "Survival!" and she did what she had to do. It was the right thing, after all. And even as she started to bandage her own fingers, she felt that pleasing growth of pride and release in her chest, flooding through her body like an exhilarating parade with majestic trumpets and cheers.

She looked at his face, expecting some snide remark, or, if he had really succumbed to terrible deliria, maybe even a thank you.

But instead, much to Hermione Granger's amusement, she found herself observing the surprising calmness of his face, watching the steady, now regular, rise and fall of his chest. His eyes were shut, allowing her to see his thin white eyelashes, his features no longer intensely scowling, but pacified. She then knew that he'd somehow fainted from the pain. However, there was an uneasy feeling wriggling inside her stomach that was far too dissimilar to the feeling of nausea or even the infamous post-nausea people often encountered.

It was just that she'd never seen him this way before – his face had always expressed some sort of hostility or arrogance, and she reckoned that he looked like that in his sleep, as well. Never in her life would she ever have thought Draco Malfoy could look serene and decent when he was unconscious. It seemed so… out of place. She slowly and unknowingly tilted her head in her moment of oddity, discovering with childlike astonishment that he even looked… like a little boy, almost. As if he just dressed up as a coldhearted bastard each morning, with his masterful sneers and facetious remarks, but at times could be caught with his guard down and his disguise flickering off, like a mechanical illusion.

Like now, in the full light of his unconsciousness.

It was too peculiar for her; seeing a different side of him that she found herself being skeptical of – only because she instantly believed it. Like it was there, an obvious fact, a tangible object that she could hold and trust and keep. But could such a thing be possible? With Draco Malfoy?

Hermione started to pack up her things.

Even she knew better than that.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The first thing Draco felt as his awareness slowly dripped back into his body was the unmistakable soreness at his side. It stung immediately like a rigged retribution, causing his body to shake and his scabbed fingers to curl into the scratched casing of his palm. With the single flicker of his brain, like an automatic light powering itself, it sent a tingling hum that awakened him, part by part, limb by limb.

He had to wait. It was almost like watching his mind process in slow motion, in the dark, with rickety gears turning and ancient pulleys sliding, and he was completely aware of everything and already slightly impatient but still exhausted to the bone. The exhaustion, he reckoned, was what did it. It miraculously started a new crop of patience inside him, although he knew too well that it would be a short-lived victory. Things like patience in Draco Malfoy either died from lack of exposure or oxygen or space. Simple as that. Nothing good or healthy could ever survive in a malicious being like him.

He remembered his father telling him that.

Gradually his body awakened and he felt weight atop of him – not dense, but rather flimsy. But warm. He felt warmth. He urged his eyelids to open so he could find out where he was, but they only drowsily revealed a blurry scene before him like the curtains before a stage. He licked his dry lips and let out a silent groan that was as rough as it felt, like rust from his lungs, blinking three times to clear his vision.

There was a dark smudge in the corner of his eye. An orange, gold radiating glow that separated them. He felt the light hairs on his body stand at the conceding knowledge of eyes watching him.

He tried to sit up but instantly felt the hot pulsating fever boiling within his head steadily rise. He tried to ignore it and eagerly tried pulling up his upper body although he felt his wounds replying with not exactly the most welcoming tender stings and aches. Nevertheless, he prevailed. With a spinning head, a blinding pain in his side and momentarily unfocused vision, he sat up.

Puzzled, he looked down at what had been laid on top of him. He saw his cloak, recognizable even to his fingers, but there were more garments to help keep him warm. He saw another cloak that he knew didn't belong to him, some jumpers, even a shirt. He narrowed his eyes and scrutinized the crimson material. Scarlet wasn't his color at all. In fact, he hated red. It was the color of…

… Gryffindor House.

The last of the clothes shrugged off of him, resting in a warm heap on his thighs, and that was when he saw what had been done to his body. He inspected the neat bandage job to support his hideous bite, could even still smell the strong scent of the ointment that had already reduced the other cuts on his chest into wee red slivers against his pale skin. Then he discovered his sling. In awe, he could see that it was only ripped cloth, and as he tried to move his arm out, he felt overwhelming pain and bit down on his lip, slipping it back in.

His stomach rumbled, his pounding headache was starting to ever so slowly subside… He had been healed. Draco didn't know whether he should be glad or angry that life had dragged him back into its hostile and cold clutches again, but as he looked up to see who it was that had been watching him this entire time, he felt himself color a bit.

He didn't know why, but maybe because as he looked at her face, flawless and almost ghostly from the firelight and darkness, he immediately received unwanted flashes of her physical contact with his body before he had passed out from the dizzying pain. He remembered her fingers, dainty but graceful and quick, smooth and almost featherweight against his skin. Instantaneously, as if on cue, he felt something rousing start buzzing through his veins. He felt as if he were housing many electrical currents at once. He tried to ward off the thoughts like they were poison to his mind and being, but his determination was only ill met and his brain – his hormones – whatever it was – prevailed.

He felt his cheeks start to burn as he recalled the feel of her breasts against him. God, that was something else, wasn't it? She'd always just been as plain and as annoying as a brick wall set smack dab in the middle of a working road, not to mention as flat as a board. Then there was being inexorably innocuous that she could be Runner Up for the Virgin Mary pageant, just below the Virgin Mary herself. What were the chances, exactly, that he'd find out that not only was she blessed with a heavenly spectacle of a body, disgustingly merciful, fairly attractive, and expedient with her hands in dire circumstances, too? And now he was indebted to her, whether he liked it or not. If that wasn't sad, then he didn't know what sad was.

She was looking at him intently, her eyes submissive to her own regard but her dark orbs looking pointedly concerned at him. Her wild hair was still as frazzled as before, but she glowed from the mischievous firelight. Draco noticed with amusement that she had still kept to her rules – she was sitting on her side. But she was still keeping a damned good watch over him, just hovering right across with her intimidating intensity and courage. However, as Draco blinked, he noticed something else about her. She looked off-color, and she was trembling slightly. She looked freezing and it was an unusually warm night tonight, disregarding the occasional chilly breeze.

He was even more surprised at the lack of emotion on her face. She didn't express her natural sternness or even the grudge he very well knew she harbored against him.

"Are you feeling better?" she asked. Her voice was slightly raspy and uncharacteristically quiet. She clutched her jumper tighter, her fingers faintly shaking. "You had some sort of fever relapse. I tried to keep you warm but I had to go through your things to try to find more garments…"

Instead of looking confidently smug about it, daring him to object against her actions like he predicted she would, she only looked gently apologetic.

Draco shifted against the wall, feeling a foreign stirring deep inside him, looking down. He swallowed hard, examining his repaired chest, only to look back up at her with a dry throat again. He couldn't help it, but he suddenly found a sprouting tumor of respect for Hermione Granger. It didn't mean that he was warming to her, of course, not at all. It didn't even mean that he was starting to like her in the slightest bit. She was insufferable, a Gryffindor, one of Potter's holy best friends and followers. She had gotten him into this mess in the first place. But had she done what he'd deserved, he'd probably be out rotting on the ground by now, not even dead yet. She'd spared him pain by giving him more pain. Pain from a different category. Healing pain.

He had to admit it: she was a gutsy little thing. Her petite figure and height did not serve her any justice at all. But he couldn't help but wonder why she was looking at him that way. It made him nervous – for more reasons than he'd like to divulge.

"You… you did all this?" he asked her. He silently pleaded that she'd had some help from her wand – he felt dirty and flustered just by thinking of the idea of her touching him. "By… by hand?"

"Yes, I—" Then she halted, mid-sentence. She looked at him with apprehensive eyes before they darkened, embers from the blaze reflecting like fire-bred jewels in her eyes and swirling in an imminent squall. A glower dawned on her face, and she started to shake even more noticeably. "Forgive me, your majesty," she angrily retorted, catching his intentions. "I forget that you'd rather die before exposing yourself to a filthy being such as myself."

"Now hold on a second, Granger," said Draco, giving her a look. "That isn't what I meant." Inside his head he was hoping that she wouldn't look through his lie. He knew he was a good liar, but after getting bitten and fainting, he found himself facedly uncertain about his abilities. He even realized he was silently reprimanding himself for saying it aloud – every little thing he said around her meant a great deal. More than words should ever. More so now.

"Oh, really?" she snapped, looking very angry. "If you hadn't noticed, I _saved_ your _life_, Malfoy—"

"And here I thought heroes were supposed to be humble, hm? Not purposely attracting glory so despicably by way of rubbing their achievements in people's faces or holding it over their heads? Isn't that written in the Hero Bylines somewhere?"

"Oh, that isn't what this is about," she hissed, alive with conviction. "And I was just beginning to think that you were maybe – just maybe – a little bit human after all. Humans fall ill, don't they? Now I see what a foolish misconception I've made from your _stupidity_ of walking out and getting yourself bitten—"

"For your sodding information, I didn't ask to get bitten, all right, Granger?" Draco was getting fairly annoyed now. "I'm sorry I walked out on you that night, and maybe you're right; I did deserve getting bitten by that beast. Karma."

But despite the fact that those were probably the nicest things Draco had ever said in his life, the most self-damning, she didn't let him explain any further. She shook her head, her wild hair flying about in a way that captivated Draco for a second, so distinctively careless it was almost beautiful, and spoke.

"I don't need your gratitude, Malfoy," she told him, her voice slightly wavering but firm and sharp. "I just need you to stick to – You can't just escape from this whenever you feel like it," she said, obviously disconcerted. "All right? It was a damned foolhardy thing to do, walking out there all by yourself. Anger makes you reckless, you out of all people should know that. And, yes, you did deserve to get bitten. Yes, it was karma. But your selfishness and bloody pride need to go, because if they don't – I'm only saving your life once, Malfoy," she darkly told him, cutting off her own rant by a strictly powered warning. "That's it."

Draco's tensed shoulders, though sore, made his muscles throb. "Fair enough," he said stiffly. He continued to stare her down, even though he knew he was in no condition to mentally battle with her. He felt his exhaustion begin to quickly weigh him down. "But… how did you get me here? I mean, you have to admit, Granger, you're not exactly the bulk of the village."

Hermione looked away, still irked with him. "I figured out a way to make our wand spells work."

Draco's ears perked, looking at her with booming curiosity and astonishment. He almost couldn't believe his ears. Surely she was fibbing! "_What_?"

"It explains why it also doesn't work in most cases," she said, still not looking at him and staring fixedly at the fire. "Like when I tried _Scourgify_. It's desperation that makes a spell ten times stronger than it should be, and it's tough enough to break through the enchantments of this wood. I couldn't carry you back here and it was getting quite dark, and I…" she visibly hesitated, unconsciously licking her lips. She carefully tried to pick her words. "Got nervous. It's already been proven that it isn't safe out there at nightfall. So I tried my wand. I got desperate, and suddenly, it worked. I was able to levitate your body and lead you back here."

Draco suddenly felt pinpricks on his arm as he had a quick flashback of the night before. Sparks filled his darkened vision, spewing and flowing and loud like a heavy-duty firecracker, blasting into the frosty night sky where it could have been easily mistaken as a defective epidemic amongst the stars. He remembered that throat-closing emotion, urgent and strong and strangulating that it had ruthlessly eaten him alive: desperation.

"Desperation," he echoed. He couldn't even believe how clever she was to figure that out. Then he began chuckling to himself, not in a mocking matter, but rather amused and even relieved and a tad bit sad. Curious at why he was amused, Hermione's eyes flickered up at him with intrigue. He unknowingly smiled at her, his eyes sparkling handsomely, mirroring the fire.

Hermione immediately looked away, her face suddenly flaring with color.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

When Draco leisurely crept back into consciousness the next morning, the first signal of life his body demonstrated was the twitching of his face, already twisted in vile discontent. His skull felt abnormally heavy, as if it had been stuffed with novocaine and cement after being battered an adequate amount of times. Unsurprisingly, his body felt stiff and sore. But as his eyelids fluttered open he found himself staring up at the rutted ceiling of the cave. His vision was warbled at first, feeling as if he was looking through thickly fogged glass, but the haziness was swept clear as he let out a breath of air.

He heard the calm chirping of birds. The sound of a new morning. There was a light breeze that tenderly and alluringly caressed his skin, relieving the heat waves his body had suffered through the night. Licking his salty lips, squinting his eyes closed, he pulled himself off of the painfully stiff ground.

He tried not to gag as he dazedly identified the horrid taste in his mouth. It tasted like slime and metal, a rough sprinkle of a little grime as well to add a little more flavor and texture. But as he looked down at his arm, relieving it of the sling Granger had made him, he waggled his fingers and stretched. At least the tonic worked. He knew too well that he couldn't live through the remaining two days with a broken arm – it would be self-invited murder.

Grateful for the antidote he'd forced himself to choke down the night before, he inspected his body. The cuts were almost completely gone now and had shrunk down into just a minute trace of the minor damage these woods had so easily inflicted on him. He looked down at the bandage wound around him so meticulously – no doubt Granger's trademark handiwork – and was about to reach down to unravel it, but hesitated. Trying to ignore the perpetual nagging that was now mangling his self-sought equilibrium, he brushed his palms off and stood, grabbing a shirt from the heap of his clothes Granger had clumsily left out.

He scowled at her disorderliness, shrugging on a clean Oxford shirt he'd managed to bring along, all the while flinching from the shoots of pain from his pinched shoulder tendons. Sleeping on the hard floor of a cold cave was not exactly what one could call a hoot.

He bent down and begrudgingly picked up his garments, throwing her things over to her side of the cave. A part of him insisted that he should at least neatly set them over there because she had helped heal him, but he mentally argued in favor of her paltry worth in his eyes. Yes, his cured rheumatism was something she could gladly account for, but the thought of her disconcerted him even more so now. Her nature was, without a doubt, so innocuous it was maddening, and so chivalrous it was almost pitiful. He wanted to see a flaw in her. Any flaw. Even just a shaving of a semblance of a flaw. There was her copious biting words and fluent opinion, not to mention prejudice towards the superior status society, but he remembered that he held the very same fault.

He found himself slightly angry for her saving him. Because of her righteous deed, he was now indebted to her, Hermione Granger! He couldn't stand in such a shadow. He would not be at her beck and call. He was meant to _have_ servants, not to be one.

Just then, he heard rustling. It seemed faint but as his head jerked up, the shaking branch and sway of the flourishing tops of the trees plucked an alarming chord inside him. He could see something dark beyond it, a sudden sign of motion.

Shortly, there was an echo of a solid and heavy thump. Cracking leaves and splitting twigs followed after the sound, which instantly launched Draco out of the cave, disheveled but concern glittering like lost treasure in his deep silver eyes, wand in hand. Though he was struck by the thought of his wand being useless and the need for desperation, he still grasped it tightly in his palm. If it were indeed a dire situation, then surely there would be more than enough desperation to go around.

He ran to where he had seen movement, dodging and pushing through the abundant thicket and overgrown shrubs. The pattern of the trees seemed heavily scattered around their area now, as he had to keep zipping around trunk after trunk.

He didn't know why she had popped up in his head right then, but in that instant he recalled that she hadn't been in the cave when he had woken up. He felt a quickly forming knot at the base of his throat, his lungs slightly contracting with fear. "Granger?" he called out, a sudden flicker of her face sparking before his eyes. He had a bad sense about this… foreboding. It sent unmistakable chills down his spine.

Draco ran faster and finally spied a body on the ground. He knelt down to discover with a vastly tightening gorge that he'd been right – it was Granger. There was something so terribly amiss, he noticed, as he saw her face. She was sweating profusely. Her curls were damp and her face shimmered from perspiration, her eyelids trembling. The rest of her was shaking as well.

"Granger?" he said, feeling something ironclad and gravely strong wind itself around his chest. The image of her convulsing filled him up with an entirely different emotion: panic. "Granger? Can you hear me? What happened?"

Her eyes slowly opened and he became even more worried at the apparent dilation of her pupils. She opened her mouth, but she was only shuddering out gasps. He waited for her to say something – anything. But when it was obvious that was not going to happen, Draco reached out and felt her forehead. He winced as he drew back his hand. She was burning ill.

Her sweat clung to his skin.

"Bloody hell," he hissed to himself. He recognized the symptoms. He looked down at the front of her shirt – there was no blood. She couldn't have been bitten… could she? Suddenly, he was angry. No, he was a confusing blend of things. Angry, horrified, desperate, shocked, panicked, bewildered. He hadn't much time. She was turning delirious. He looked down at his wand and helplessly let it drop beside her. It was useless. This was no normal malady.

He knew what he had to do, but he was dreading it. He had to check for any bites. That was the only way. It was time to return the favor.

Deeply sighing, trembling, he clenched his fists. Then he reached out with petrified fingers, wanting to look away, wanting just to run and leave her there, and felt for a button. He found one, and slowly put it through the hole. He raised his fingers and did another. Then, to his surprise, his fingers began to quicken their pace, unbuttoning her shirt. His face began to flush as he felt them swipe against her hot skin. God, she was almost as pale as he was.

When she started to stir, he stopped. He looked at her with wide eyes, as if expecting any moment now that she'd sit up in perfect health and hex him to oblivion. But she didn't. She let out a frightened, weak whimper, but did nothing else.

Her creamy navel was exposed to him now. He wanted to stop. It was evident enough that she had not been bitten – but then, why was she suffering from a fever very similar to the one he'd had?

Just then, a dark blur appeared in the corner of his eye. His head jerked up, but when his eyes sought out the figure, it had disappeared. In the distance he heard a series of cracking dead leaves and snapping brushwood, making him tense in his very spot. It was rustling and swift, getting farther and farther away. Instead of relief flooding him he felt even more cautious and on guard. If that beast was gone, then why did he feel like he was still being watched? A cold shudder of realization ran through him.

There was someone else here.

Someone else watching them.

He looked down, frantic, his hands shaking. He didn't know what to do. Were the Death Eaters here? Could Granger really be right? Could they have come back? His hands clenched against her blouse, wrinkling the material. He was terrified. Suddenly, he felt something. Something cold and fast, weightless but icy and steely. An ominous tingle webbed down his spine, sending a white-hot distress signal to his brain. Something sharp was jabbing into the base of his neck.

Draco looked up to find dozens of spearheads staring back at him.

* * *

**Intrigued? Review!**

**Post-A/N: **I don't know how many of you actually read the stuff in the end, but I would just like to thank **Lorett**, my new beta reader, and all of you who offered your services as well. I am utmost grateful and flattered that you wanted to edit my scraggly fics, and I thank you for your generosity, for, really, without the furnishings of a good beta-session, it's really quite like crap. My fics, anyway. So, thank you!


	7. The Sacred Moon Tribe

**A/N:** Sorry for the update that took only four months too long… erghh, it took me quite a while to get back on track. But hey! You've gotten this far, haven't you? Well, you shan't fret my fellow shippers – this whimsical disaster only leads to some sweet, sweet lovin'. Speaking of sweet lovin', I'd like to thank you, my faithful readers and reviewers. I know there were a lot of you who bothered to remind me to update this fic (don't worry – I never forgot) and I just wanted to say that I love you all! And to the wonderful **Lorett**, as well, who was patient with me and my slow technique.

**The Sacred Moon Tribe**

Draco did not think that any words in the entire world could have expressed the utter and sheer adamant shock he felt right then. He felt as if every part of his body – every artery, every twitching nerve, every muscle – had frozen right over. But as he impossibly managed to take in the scene before him, the many glinting sharp spearheads directed square at his face, as struck with fright as he was, he felt a sudden overwhelming protectiveness. He could still hear Granger's labored breathing and she began to feverishly writhe beside him, but the stone-faced figures surrounding him did not do so much as blink.

Draco, successfully erasing the astonishment from his expression, allowed his face to mold into one of courage and defiance. His mercurial eyes turned menacingly dark, his lips tensing into a rigid line. His clammy hands unfisted themselves from her shirt and he instantly felt for her hand, seizing it in an iron grasp unless they were planning on separating them. Her skin was scorching against his and coated with sweat, but he held on.

From their appearance, Draco had already formed one too many conclusions about their culture. They wore simplified togas from heavy cloths, handmade leather sandals on their feet, and certainly gave out the air of a barbarian. The spectacle amused him. The death sticks they were aiming at him, however, did not. They seemed the fiercest of civilizations – their strong faces were stoic yet bold and decidedly vicious. They all sported unkempt and rather long hair, their skin deeply tanned. Each man had miles of muscle.

Then there was a part in the ring of intrepid warriors. A few men shifted fluidly to the side– as if this had been practiced, and an elderly man appeared before Draco. He was certainly aged by nature from the deep lines and trenches embedded on his face, but his burly stature was still precisely crafted for a fighter. His eyes were hidden behind sagging eyelids, but somehow they were still uncannily piercing. As Draco unknowingly gazed into them, something forceful struck his heart – something that made his entire body stumble backwards, causing him to let go of Granger's hand. His damp hands scraped against the dirt underneath him, wincing.

The man was looking down at him with a stern face. "Stand," he spoke, in a booming voice.

Draco stood, complying with his order.

He spoke very fluently, though Draco could hear the exotic edge to his voice. It was a foreign accent he'd never heard before.

"What is your business here, stranger?" he asked him firmly. His sharp eyes were still peering at him, and he felt that same prick in his chest.

Draco wasn't aware of his mouth opening; he only heard his reply clanging like resonating bass bells inside his ears: "We're looking for someone." Draco's eyes widened, shocked at his impulsive answer – the truth had just fled his mouth without his consent. It seemed all too easy, too prompted. . . . That was when Draco recognized what had happened to him when he had first stared into the leader's eyes. The man was enchanted. Draco's eyes narrowed at him with distaste as he felt as if his skull was being stiffly searched, the old man's eyes flickering wildly as if each of his emerald orbs held hundreds of jewels inside of them and Draco had purposely eluded a beacon of light reflect off one of its many sparkling dimensions.

The man blinked slowly, and as his eyelids revealed his eyes again, they were calm. Though clear and no longer so mysterious, they held a knowing glitter in them now. "You are looking for the Death Eaters, are you not?" he asked Draco in a raspy but grim tenor.

Still quite surprised with the man's extraordinary ability, Draco nodded. But there was caution he housed rightly; he had every right to be suspicious of them as they him. Who were they, exactly?

"Very well then," said the leader. He nodded to someone behind Draco. "Come with us."

He gave him a mistrusting look, but then noticed the pull at his body. Draco glanced down at Granger and a root of worry traced its way across his thumping chest, masking the terror and qualm of the situation. She was deathly pale now.

The man seemed to have sensed Draco's distress as he looked down at her still form. His eyes softened. "Bring the girl."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Draco did not know where he was being led, but he tried to peer around with an absorbent memory just in case they needed to make a hasty escape. He glanced behind him every two minutes or so at the severe-faced men who were carrying Granger because he knew that if he lost her now it would only embroil their current situation. The grim pores of his face compressed even tighter each time he saw that her febrific condition was only worsening, and subconsciously wished that they could somehow hurry to wherever it was these tribe folk lived so she could get some medical attention. The last thing he wanted now was for Granger to die. She'd been the one who'd gotten him into this rut in the first place, and there was no way she was going to have the easy way out now by simply dying.

Despite his surreptitious pleads that he felt were currently flustering every single nerve in his body, he knew very well that their pace was already rather hustled. He was heavily guarded with two bulky guards marching right beside him as they walked deeper and deeper into the wood. Every time Draco peered ahead, expecting to see some sort of logs-and-sticks village peeking out at him through all the brushwood and foliage, all he found were even more trees.

After ten minutes of quick strides, Draco's expression morphed into a scowl of sour malcontent. He began to grind his teeth in his tense jaw, glaring ahead for any sign of a cluster of civilization, clenching his hands and almost smelling the moist earth that had grazed his skin. He felt perspiration lathered on the back of his neck, perhaps elicited by his rioting anxieties, but there was a cool breeze that passed, causing tiny goose bumps to peak all over his pale skin.

He glimpsed behind him again. Her whimpers echoed in his ears with a threatening reverberation that made him shiver, his glower pressing deeper into his face. He began to seriously consider the possibility of her dying. For some reason he could not fathom, he felt a hollow impression in his chest when he thought of it: as if something had tenaciously depressed itself deep inside his body and he could not get it out. It was true that he'd entertained himself countless times before with the notion of her death, but now that it was almost tangible and within his reach it was overwhelming and impossibly hard to swallow down. What would he do if she died? What _could_ he do if she died? He was utmost certain – so certain that he had himself convinced - and it was maddening – that he was far too deep into this forest to ever come back out alive.

And what about Dumbledore? What would Dumbledore say when he told him that he'd allowed Granger to die right in front of him? Would he simply hand him over to the Dementors as Draco helplessly watched his future sail right by him and call it a day?

While it was true that earlier on he had thought that the possibility of a lived-out future was far too prodigious to ever be achieved by him, as of late he had been swept away by the drunken fantasy. It was no use denying it now: he wanted that future. Needed it, almost, that he could taste it simmering on his tongue like a drizzle of warm honey. That was why he had been working so hard these past few days and also reckoned why fate had let him become discovered by none other than pious Hermione Granger again. Because, perhaps, he was meant to have that future. Not anything near Pleasantville, of course, but damned right close. He didn't want to spend his life rotting away in a dingy, slimy cell trying to avoid the kiss of a soul-sucking monster. Didn't want to lose his sanity and composure, although he caught himself there at that precipice already and thought maybe it was a little too late for that.

But, to simply put it in terms incontestable: Hermione Granger couldn't die. Because his future was riding on her, and if she died, then his future died as well. And he couldn't allow that. Not when everything he had was at stake after he had worked so bloody hard for it. But then he reckoned that this was one of the many vicinities the perpetual injustice of his life played out and tried to conjure up a plan of escape if Granger _were_ to die and the barbarians were to hold him captive. Easy, he'd kill them all with a flick of his wand. But then what? He couldn't possibly scamper back to Dumbledore and tell him about dead Granger (the thought of it made his stomach mildly queasy, although he'd never say so) because then it would only further prove that Draco hadn't kept his side of the bargain. He'd still land himself right in Dementor Avenue.

By this time, thinking about all of these things that seemed to be clutching his entire life and future by only an insufficiently thin thread, had his head beginning to fog over with urgency for another person's life, for the first time ever in _his_ lifetime. And it was a strange feeling to behold, indeed, for he'd never felt this way before… as if he actually _cared_ about someone. Of course, he did not expect it to linger with him for long (the basis of his _care_ was not exactly the most sincere or selfless), for even considering such a thing would be preposterous and would only trouble him, but it was all he could think of.

Draco blinked as he turned his head. He thought he saw something traveling alongside them, right beyond the trees, something dark passing through. He quickly forgot about it, however, as for a reason unknown to him, after a few more moments of walking and looking around, a new ambiance began to ripple over them. He could feel it, and it certainly was queer; a cold, yet warm feeling that started from the very roots of his hair until it passed over his chest like a spring wind. There was a new quiet in his ears that he could not recognize – but its effects were instantly calming. And then as he looked up, he felt a sigh of great relief tremor from inside of him as he could see the well-formed houses, made delicately yet sophisticatedly with wood and tree branches, and more people of their tribe passing through with herbs or sticks in their arms. Leaves hung low, creating a symbolic, whimsical veil, and they entered.

They stopped, some passerby shooting them looks of curiosity, before the man motioned something that Draco couldn't exactly make out to the men who were holding Granger. But as he saw them nod in curt approval, and begin to walk away with her still unconsciously feverish, Draco felt himself jerk after them.

"Wait—" he said, looking at them, before he looked at the old man. He didn't know exactly what he had been going to say after "wait" – take good care of her, perhaps? Don't touch her in places that you know for certain that when she wakes up she'll hex you all the way into the next dimension? Instead, he took one look at the tribal Chief and was silenced. He swallowed the prickly knot in his throat. He didn't know why he was so worried about Granger. She was a brave girl, right – the bint could knock over a wall made of pure stone if she wanted to. Certainly she'll battle right through this and he'd get his future. Certainly.

"Do not worry, young man," the leader said with some reassurance. His face, like carved stone, didn't dare yield to any other emotion – but somehow something in his voice and air made Draco trust him. A rarity, indeed, that he could not help but to be suspicious of. "Our medicine woman will surely heal her. She will be fine. But you – you must come with me. We have matters to discuss."

The man turned around and started towards the middle of the village, and Draco followed after him.

Draco hesitated, but asked it anyway. His mind was still on Granger dying, and no matter how much something in the back of his mind so readily coaxed him into relying on these strange new folk, he couldn't help but feel a trickle of fear, dank and cold, simmer inside his lungs.

"When will I see her again?" he asked.

The leader smiled a secret smile. "Soon."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Draco was led deeper into the village, and his eyes were easily distracted by their vivid culture. He thought them savages, of course, for no Malfoy could be easily swayed on their views of society without tangible proof, but at the same time could not help noticing the straightness of their backs and the upturned angles of their chins as they walked. He passed a few children who were playing, giggling just as children should, and some others eyed him warily with enough skepticism that it very nearly intimidated him. There were a group of girls his age, however, that he passed. They had been carrying blankets and animal hide in their arms, and one in particular had given him a cunning smile. Draco would have been surprised to see how he'd so easily ignored such an inviting look, with such a careless air of indifference, had he actually paid attention. He had long turned away from the feminine attention and was now looking around at the little shacks, wondering which one was the home of the medicine woman.

Finally, he found himself facing one particularly large house – much more extravagant than the others. There were guards at the entrance that did not do so much as look at Draco but simply stand stationary with their sharp, glittering spears. There was no door but animal skin that hid the entrance. The man pulled it aside and stepped through, and Draco, catching the strong scent of incense and the fragrant smoke of ground flowers and spices that made his nose tingle, followed close behind.

There were people inside when he stepped in, but soon realized that they were only workers, or servants. He was then very surprised to see that the man he had been following wasn't the Chief of the tribe at all; there he was, sitting on an elevated throne of gold, sapphires and emeralds, a boy that couldn't possibly be past the age of ten years! Draco remained frozen, staring at the skinny boy, taking in his dark freckles and black, tousled hair. Why, he looked like one of the Lost Boys! Could it honestly be possible that this boy – who had not even succumbed into the rabid clutches of puberty, yet, which did not help in regarding him seriously – was their Chief? He could contain his shock but not the slightly disturbed expression morphing his face into unknowing bewilderment. It was strange, coming upon this new – albeit insignificant – twist in their soi-disant "journey" to rubbish righteousness or heroism or merely just for the sake of his future. He stared ahead of him, his mind like a wheezing sponge yet unable to filter out the fact that Granger was dying and he was going to have to consult this _kid_ into taking them seriously.

The smell of the incense was so strong and heavy that it made his chest burn and his throat feel cracked and dry.

The boy quirked one brow at him, his body carelessly splayed across the throne just like how a nine year old would sit. He had long, stick-like limbs but the boy certainly did not give off any hint of malnourishment – he had that healthy glow about him that Draco scoffingly reckoned was from eating roasted squirrel. He then realized that this boy was enchanted as well. He was still bewildered, above anything else, as he felt shivers trace up his spine, knowing that this was an enchanted boy. It was oddly thrilling to stand before such a being, for there were not many in the world – some textbooks he recalled even said that they were extinct. But he could feel it, right in his bones, the magic that ran through the very system of their Chief – and as ridiculous as it was, as much as Draco wanted to scoff at his somewhat silly circumstance, it was really nothing to laugh about.

"Get me a chair so the boy with the weird face can sit down," said the boy, and Draco could hear his crisp English accent – very unlike the rest of the members he had heard. There was also a very apparent subcutaneous snobbery he could detect in the tone of his voice. Draco could see the way the boy was looking at him, the way he pressed his lips tightly in dissatisfaction that bizarrely reminded him of the way Snape had looked at him that fateful day that already seemed so long ago – he could already tell that they weren't going to get along very well. And as for that, he didn't consider it much a loss, for what could one do with a nine-year-old boy's favor, anyhow? Draco Malfoy didn't even like normal people _his_ age – he would make no exception for this… _infant_.

His demand was immediately granted, and Draco watched as the boy dismissed each of his servants except the old man that had led him here, who stood closely by the Chief's throne. His workers all bustled out of his house, leaving the three of them alone. The boy looked on to him again, and Draco was once again reminded of the upturned angles of their chins. Something about this kid, and he couldn't figure out what, seemed very imperious. It was just not the throne, mind you, or the fact that this kid was most likely spoiled rotten, which was an immediately detestable factor.

"Sit down, Draco Malfoy," said the Chief, and Draco did, though stiffly, because he still couldn't believe he was taking orders from a child. If this was Hogwarts the boy would have run away from him by now in fear, but thinking that, he felt a pinch in his chest – no use in entertaining thoughts like that now, because they truly _weren't_ in Hogwarts anymore. He'd even started to forget about that place for a while, until now, because of Granger's illness and all. Funny how he found himself worrying about her even without any of those tangents or external forces sneering down at him.

Nevertheless, he knew that the boy had gone and picked through his mind for he didn't remember telling him his name at all, and was a bit irritated at the level of his skill. He preferred it if they would just ask questions instead of going through his privacy like that.

The Chief gave him a knowing look. "I have stood in front of many liars, Mr. Malfoy," he told him, suddenly. "That is the reason why I must search through your intentions. Most of your men cannot be trusted. I find no reason why I must make you an exception."

Draco clenched his jaw.

Damn this boy. His snobbery was _outstanding_.

"What is your business here?" he asked Draco, his voice a clear yet steadily sharp tenor. "My advisor tells me that you are looking for the Death Eaters, yes? Because the girl is looking for Harry Potter?"

Draco nodded, although the Chief didn't necessarily need any confirmation.

"You think that the Death Eaters have Potter." The boy looked at him again, pausing. "And what are you doing in our part of the woods? Are you not aware that it is extremely perilous for you to be wandering around here? There are beasts and creatures here that have been hidden from those textbooks of yours, and you shall be unfortunate to find that very little of your magic can work here." He seemed proud of that fact.

"We… got lost," said Draco, astounded and very annoyed by this boy. Maybe he _was_ malnourished – he certainly didn't sound like any other nine-year-old.

The boy's eyes shrunk into slits, leering at him. Draco could tell he had read his mind again and cursed silently. "You are shocked at my disposition. Tell me why," he ordered.

Draco bit back what he was originally going to say. "It's just that I have never seen a nine-year-old Chief."

"I'm not nine!" cried the boy, aggressively launching out of his hostile maturity, and Draco mentally corrected himself. This was definitely a nine-year-old boy. The boy seemed so upset by his statement that it took all of what Draco had not to laugh.

"You aren't?"

"I'm nine and a _half_!" he bit out, looking as if he was going to cry. "And what the bleeding hell's the matter with being a young Chief? It's better than what you are – _old_ _man_! I bet when you were nine and a half all you did was chase around balls of string all day – not rule a bloody village!"

Meanwhile, the (real) old man was silent, his gaze still fierce. They glimmered with an almost inhuman but captivating sheen. Draco, despite the boy's whining, knew that he had to watch what he thought around this man, but he couldn't help but feel a blossom of anger towards him, too. He could feel the stranger peering through each of his embedded secrets, and every single one of his thoughts like it was paperwork, and he wasn't very appreciative of his investigative work. Maybe because he knew his very nature as well, and was threatened by what the man would be able to decipher. He had a very dark past, cradled by Dark magic and evil deeds, and he knew almost instantly that the man would shoot right into that. It was odd, for Draco knew that a man's secrets should be the best basis to judge him, but it was still somehow unfair how one's past could be so disagreeable to how they were now. Granted, he wasn't the best exhibit of any of this.

The old man gently set a hand on the boy's shoulder, quieting his sniffles.

"I sense vanity and arrogance in you, Mr. Malfoy," he said suddenly, and Draco's face was firmed with a scowl. "Your journey will not end well if you keep your pride intact. Your pride, you should know, will be your downfall if you are not careful."

His eyes narrowed, leering at the advisor with much of the infamous Malfoy contempt while the Chief nodded his head sourly in agreement. Draco simply asked what he needed to ask: "Do you know _anything_ about the Death Eaters, yes or no?" He said it without even a semblance of respect. He was starting to hate this odd pair. Enchanted or not, there was toeing the line and there was crossing it. He had definitely – _definitely_ – crossed it.

"I know much about the Death Eaters," said the Chief, a begrudging glint in his eye, "but it is information I cannot give you. I cannot know that you can be trusted. We trust only those of our tribe, no one else."

"Then why did you take us in?" demanded Draco, now convinced that they were only wasting his time. "If you refuse to help us find what we're looking for, or even give us any information, what was the use of dragging us all the way to your dingy village?"

"Because the girl was dying," the Chief replied sharply, and the boy melted away. "And I was foretold of your coming – through a vision. If she dies, there is no hope. And if she dies, you are doomed, because of your insolent stupidity and self-importance."

Draco's temper flared. "This is feckless," he snarled. "Let me have Granger and we'll leave. It would only be insulting for us to stick around here."

"Maybe so, but you, old man, cannot leave," the Chief said firmly and spitefully, and Draco looked at him in disturbing shock. Color fled from his face, paling with rage.

"And why the bloody hell _not_?" He could not get over the outrageous defiance of this _boy_. He could kill him right now if he wanted. But then he remembered that he was a Chief, and that there were guards outside with lethal weapons, and that he was enchanted. Obviously, quite obviously, he could not win.

Damn.

"Because if you leave now, you will die. I have seen it for nights and nights, Draco Malfoy. If you take your woman and leave now, worse beings will take hold of you, and both of you will die." The Chief's dark, thick brows were furrowed gravely. He looked insanely determined and so dependent on his visions that Draco could not even bring himself to laugh at the boy now; he seemed so daunting and true. It was frightening, how he spoke so fervently that thunder and lightning could have easily begun to roll out of his mouth, whipping and lashing and roaring. He reminded Draco of a lion, a bold but burdened lion – a very sad comparison but somehow very real in this instance.

An image of Granger writhing on the floor with her face creased in pain flickered inside his head and his hands clenched beside him. The Chief advisor blinked at him.

"You will stay here until the next full moon – then I will reveal to you a way to elude these woods onto a safer trail."

"But what about the Death Eaters?"

He looked at him seriously, agitated. "I have told you once before – I cannot tell you unless you are a part of our tribe."

And the rigid tone of his voice that rode like a jagged arrowhead, along with the severe cut of his face, told Draco that that was the last word of it. He stood there for a moment or two, not once disconnecting from his challenging stare, trying to decide whether he should oblige him the last say. He didn't care if he was the Chief of the village – this was ridiculous. It didn't make any sense to him at all. Could it be possible that if Draco did leave now with Granger that they would die? But what would the tribe gain from keeping them in safety?

"And what, exactly, would you gain from helping us this way?"

The Chief's advisor sighed, at last letting another emotion flicker across his face: exhaustion. It was obvious that he was getting very weary from dealing with Draco; in his opinion, he was a spiteful boy with a poisonous tongue. Yet he thought that perhaps if he told him it would sit in his ears for a while and then seep into that arrogant head of his, little by little.

"We are all one, Mister Malfoy. I expect you to keep that in mind from this point on; it is crucial in understanding the way things are, and the way things will be. If one of you should die along this quest… then our fate is not better off."

And then Draco was dismissed with the word that they were going to send someone to show where he was to be staying. He stumbled out of the Chief's quarters, glaring out at the strange village. He thought of the advisor and was reminded of Dumbledore.

"Senile old men and their rubbish riddles," Draco grumbled.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

He was led to a tiny hut, roomy enough to shelter one person and not much else. Inside was a little cot and a small wooden table with a wax candle. There was also a rusty bedpan sitting underneath the desk, and looking upon it, Draco groaned, cursing his luck. How he'd stumbled upon this miserable hole in his life, he really could not fathom – except that there was fate's absolute cruelty and sadistic ways to consider a main point in all of this. Realizing that there was nothing he could do about it now until he saw a healed Granger, he found himself lying down on the bed, staring up at the well-sealed ceiling.

His body was exhausted; there was no denying that. He could feel his constricted, tensed muscles slowly relax and the uncomfortable knots that had formed throb along his neck. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes, trying to think. His intentions were not well met for all he could concentrate on was the abnormal drumming of his heart he felt underneath his rough fingertips, and his thoughts now all seemed to unravel and tangle back up again in chaotic hysteria. Apparently, Hermione Granger dominated his thoughts. No matter how incessantly he attempted to assure himself that she wasn't going to die, there was a cold, slimy feeling in his chest that made him entirely too uneasy.

"She's a bloody Gryffindor," he hissed at himself. "Gryffindors don't die that easily." This was true. He had been a witness to it too many times that nothing could prove it false now, unless – unless Granger did die.

But that wasn't his favorite topic to contemplate about, you see. In his head he received flashes of what he could possibly do in the face of a desperate and doomed situation like that. Granger couldn't possibly die – not now, not when he needed her the most. The Man wouldn't be that cruel, would he? For certain, this was a dire and urgent situation, and Draco even felt a hot tightening around his throat when he thought about the fact that if he hadn't marched out on her that one fateful day all of this could have been avoided. But this was not his fault. It couldn't be his fault – sure, those death wishes had been uttered once or twice in his sleep and even in his full consciousness, but it wasn't as if he'd actually _meant_ them. True to the matter, if he'd been allowed a peek into the tempestuous future and he'd seen this, along with Granger dying from some magical malady, he wouldn't have allowed them to see life past his lips. He would have even considered being nicer to her, a little.

Uncannily, in all of his thoughts of death, and his resistance of what people would normally call "panic," he somehow began to slowly drift off to sleep. His body's dazed weariness soon caught up to him and the thumping he heard in his ears began to fade away, the loud indistinct voices inside his head doused by the endless strain of the past few days.

His deep, dreamless sleep was sharply interrupted by a loud voice. Draco sat up quickly, so quickly that he received a nasty head rush in return for his over-enthusiasm, finding a blurred figure standing at the doorway of his hut. He rubbed his eyes, feeling his heart pound inside his chest.

It was the old man he'd seen earlier, the Chief's advisor.

"I have come to inform you that the girl has woken," he said, his face unchanging in its impassive expression. "She is well."

Draco scrambled up to his feet, his tiredness rapidly flushed away by necessity and slight relief. "Good," he said, and although he tried hard not to give anything away, he could feel the man searching through his thoughts again. "What –"

"She was suffering from an infection," he answered, before Draco could even finish his sentence. "It is a familiar sickness among our tribe, but it is easily fatal, which is reason enough for us to avoid it. There is a beast that lurks around our part of the woods – dangerous and foul. Its jaws hold a lethal venom. A person can be infected just by touching the venom with bare skin."

He suddenly got a flashback of that night when he had been blindly, ruthlessly attacked and almost eaten by a strange beast. He winced when he thought of it; that had been a bad night for him. Draco had an impeccable feeling it was the same beast the old man was talking about. He then realized that _he_ had been the one to give Granger that infection… when she had tried to heal him, she'd touched him with her bare hands…

Draco was still silent in thought when the man stepped back, heading towards the door. "Come, now. I will escort you to her."

He followed the man as they exited Draco's tiny hut, discovering that night had already begun to fall, the sinking sun soaking behind the glimmering tops of the trees. The tribes folk had begun to light fires in the pathways to ready for nightfall and Draco was surprised at the constant humidity of their village for it was common knowledge that temperatures were supposed to cool once the sun had started to set. He looked around, spying some of the people still giving him looks of curiosity and concern, before shifting his attention back to the man in front of him.

The Chief's advisor led him to a bigger hut in the middle of the village, which he assumed belonged to their medicine woman, and bowed to the elderly woman that came out to greet them. She had leaves woven into her raven hair, eyes colored an astonishing shade of blue, and stern lines of age impressed along her jaw. The man spoke in a language Draco could not understand as he merely stood there, waiting and watching them, before the woman turned and looked straight at Draco, her eyes suddenly piercing. He then felt a sudden electric jolt inside his body, blinking furiously, and he discovered that this woman was another strong magical being as well.

She looked at Draco very closely, her small eyes peering at him. "You are the boy that came with this girl?"

"Yes," answered Draco, very anxious to see Granger. "I need to see her."

"You do know that if our Chief's advisor hadn't found you and brought the girl over to me that she would have surely died?" she said in a stern voice. "What is it that you are looking for, my boy? It must be something very grave to risk putting such a young girl before Death's hands like this."

The old man answered for Draco. "They are looking for the Death Eaters," he said in a husky voice.

The medicine woman looked alarmed. "The Death Eaters? For what possible reason?" She scowled at him. "You are on a very dangerous path. Everyone knows that it does no good looking for such evil; eventually, evil will find you." The woman's gaze disconnected from Draco's when the old man began to speak in their native tongue again, and the woman began to shake her head, waving her hand in disagreement. She spoke back to him, and it seemed they were having a heated argument before she finally relented, sighing, looking at Draco with pressed, thin lips. "Very well, then. You may go see her. She is already well. This night she is to be released so she can lodge in her own hut."

Draco heard the continuation of their discussion as he entered the hut, brushing aside the animal hide, hearing their harsh whispers. He swallowed hard, silently walking in, feeling the steady and relieving beat of his heart as he caught a familiar pair of brown eyes staring back at him. She seemed comfortable in the full bed and quilt they had bundled her with, which was certainly a lot more than they had offered to him, Draco noted bitterly. Her face seemed to glow from the candlelight, and to his utmost surprise, she almost seemed to smile a little when he saw her. She shifted herself, trying to sit up, as he reached her bedside.

She looked well. Draco felt the heavy stones in his stomach disappear, coaxed away by the color in her cheeks.

"You're not dead," he bluntly stated.

"Sadly, no," she remarked back, though this was not spoken with her usual venomous attitude towards him. She looked relieved as well, though still a little tired. "Though my death would only further suit your bigot ways, it seems that God has decided he has more plans for me."

"It certainly seems so," said Draco dryly. His eyes were still connected with hers, molten gray to soft brown, before he suddenly looked away, uncomfortable with the sudden coziness that seemed to radiate between them. He felt an incongruent hitch in his throat and tried to mentally rub it away. "You gave us quite a bit of a scare there, Granger. You Gryffindors are always so full of dramatics. Can't ever attempt a peaceful death, can you?"

"And what? Give you the satisfaction?" Hermione scoffed, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Due to the warm light, a few of her strands glowed a little gold. She seemed to glow a little, too. In fact, now that Draco thought about it, this village made everything a little bit more whimsical than it actually was. "I think not."

Draco snuck a glance behind him, and hearing that the old man and the medicine woman were still engaged in conversation, began to speak in hushed tones. "Granger, listen. Somehow, in the midst of all your dying theatrics, we were picked up by this woodland tribe. They agreed to heal you back to health, but they won't give me any information about the Death Eaters. They all look particularly alarmed whenever I mention them," said Draco with a furrowed brow, "and so they _must_ know something we don't. I have a feeling they know where they are. They're familiar with them. I can tell."

"And how do you know they aren't the Death Eater's allies?" asked Hermione skeptically, her face looking worried. "You said they just picked us up, right? And dragged us off to the middle of nowhere? What makes you think we can trust them?"

Draco let out a tight sigh. "They healed you, didn't they?"

"Yes, well, that part's obvious, but what if –"

"Look, Granger, I admit, there's something bizarre about this tribe, but just trust me on this," Draco gravely told her, and suddenly his face seemed a lot closer to hers than it was before. Hermione noted this piece of observation, nodding, swallowing hard. "They know something. Something that we don't, and something that we need to know. Do you want to save Potter or not? Granted, this is going to take a lot of work – these people are particularly hardheaded. They won't say anything to anyone unless they're a part of their tribe."

Hermione was quiet for a moment. "I trust you," she finally said, softly, and there wasn't a single glint of struggle in her eyes as she said it – which surprised Draco. Somehow – and this gave him shivers that he really didn't like – they had started to _trust_ each other now. And that almost made him stagger back and begin to reconsider all of this again – almost. Because even in the iron binds within his chest he could not pull himself completely away from her without exerting much force, because as her brown, dreamy eyes tided him with their depth and sincerity, he felt his heart's tattoo alarmingly quicken and a feverish pulsing in the back of his head. He did his best to ignore all of this, of course, as he tore his gaze away from hers as rapidly as one possibly could, a little bit flustered.

_It's this sodding village,_ he mentally thought. _Magical fumes, or something of the sort. Makes you delusional. _And he really was convinced by this, because what else could plausibly explain the way he felt when he had seen Granger in this stupid little hut? It was the only logical explanation.

Finally, before the awkwardness and Draco's frantic ponderings about the magical influences of this strange village could pool into a larger amount, the Chief's advisor and the medicine woman strode in, and Draco, alarmed, stepped back from Granger's bed, as if they had been doing something they weren't supposed to be doing. The stern medicine woman (who, he had to admit, could be a distant cousin of Professor McGonagall for they certainly shared the same limited expressions) looked between the two hastily, then back to Draco again, then back to Hermione. She seemed to be trying to figure something out inside her head, something majestic, and he could almost sense it, the incessant clicking of gears and the fluttering puzzle pieces fitting together.

"You may go," she finally said to Hermione. "One of the village guides will show you to your hut. You may stay there until you depart."

Hermione, nodding, and politely thanking her as to not forget her manners, neatly got up from the bed, quickly fitting on her trainers. She soon joined Draco's side while the old man led them out of the medicine woman's hut for her patients. Just then, when Hermione had barely stuck a foot out of the hut, she found herself being pulled back by a tight, cold hand clasped around her arm.

She gasped, alarmed, and Draco instantly turned back, disturbed. On impulse, he protectively placed one of his hands on her other elbow.

It was the medicine woman. She had a foreboding look on her face, dark and mysterious. "I'd advise you two not to wander out of this village. Once you are out of this village's protective charms, and you have no guidance or knowledge of where you stand, you will be lost forever. Beware. This place shelters horrors even Death Eaters flee from."

And then she let go of her, disappearing back inside her hut, leaving them with a slight tinkle in their ears and the scent of burnt herbs in their noses.

Draco shook Hermione out of her shock, tugging her and dragging her by the elbow behind the old man, who was almost far in front of them now. He didn't let go until he was certain she could keep up.

"Ten Galleons says that woman's barmy," Draco muttered to her. "Almost all spinsters are. Remember Madam Pomfrey?"

"Somehow, I have a feeling that she was only trying to warn me," Hermione snapped at him, rubbing her elbow. "She knows this place better than we do. And why'd you have to pull me so hard?"

"Quite obviously, she has a clear thought that we're stupid enough to try and escape."

Hermione looked up at him, question in her eyes. "Are we?"

Draco turned his face away. "I'll let you know when I've thought of an answer."

Granger's voice lowered into a rushed, harsh whisper. Apparently she did not agree with Draco's response. "You aren't saying that we're actually going to try to escape from this place, are you? You heard the woman! We're going to need a proper guide, along with some food, because if you can vividly recall, I left all our food back at the cave –"

"Ever heard of borrowing materials, Granger?"

Hermione had cleverly heard this sort of language before from Fred and George. She was very familiar with it – it was a kind of boy code. "_Borrowing materials?"_ she said scandalously. "You mean _steal_?"

"No, I mean _borrowing_ materials," he said firmly, as they walked together. He tried to avoid the villagers' eyes that were on them now – he remembered that they weren't too familiar with Granger like they were familiar with him (at least, his perpetually sour appearance), but he had a feeling she would catch up. He still felt a bit nervous as they kept watching him, though – it was as if they were all peering into his head, which sent an influx of shudders to circulate through his body.

"Malfoy, if your plan includes stealing from these nice people and venturing out there without – do you honestly want to get us _killed_?" she said, almost hysterical. "That's it, isn't it? You want to get us killed! Well, that explains everything, why you want to step out there with all of the monsters again, especially that beast who literally mauled you, and supposedly gave me that infection, and, by the way, if you haven't heard, I could have _died_ –"

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," he hissed. "You're only frightened, Granger – you're a cowardly custard, that's what you are. And you're forgetting that life isn't that obliging to _me_ as to allow you to die so early in our little adventure." His eyes uncomfortably scanned their surroundings.

"I'm afraid there's a difference between being a coward and _valuing life_," she bit out. "And trying to avoid circumstances in which homicidal antics will, most likely, be provoked within animals and/or people. Are you _mad_?" she asked him, scowling.

"A good healthy amount."

"Being mad cannot be healthy, in any amounts."

"Speak for yourself, Granger. Actually, never mind that, don't speak at all," he gritted out, "shut up, or else you're going to get us caught."

And, as if on cue, they stopped before a small hut identical to Draco's. The old man was looking at them with his usual face – his facial expressions, Draco noticed, along with the other members of this so-called village was very, very limited – and did not even twitch to give way to any other semblance of emotion.

"This is where you will be staying," he said to Hermione. "If you are in need of anything, you may come find me, I stay in the Chief's hut. Meanwhile, you must come to the ceremony with the rest of the tribe. It begins in two hours. After the ceremony we will discuss the matters you need to know," he said, his eyes flickering to Draco. "That is all." And then he left them, walking away.

Before Draco could look at Granger again, she had already disappeared inside her hut, the animal hide flapping closed. He quickly followed in after her, catching her just as she whirled around, regarding him with a serious expression on her face.

"We need to go to that ceremony. We can't make any more plans until after tonight, understand? This is important. They might even know where Harry is. Perhaps they'll be lenient, considering the fact that this is a rather… abnormal case."

Draco snorted. "I wouldn't hold my breath, Granger. These folk wear tight breeches when it comes to giving away secrets. You'll see that soon, since you choose to be a stubborn arse and don't believe me."

"Sure," she said absentmindedly. "Now, get out, before they think we're doing something."

One of his pale brows hiked up onto his forehead, looking horrified. "_Doing_ something? Exactly what are you thinking, Granger, that we're going to be engaging in some frivolous –"

"Just get out," she said hastily, shoving him out, the soles of Draco's expensive shoes skidding out onto the dirt, an elusive cloud of loose dirt billowing behind him. Then her head peeped out of the animal hide, looking at him. "I'll see you later," she said quickly, before she tucked her head back inside and she was gone. Then she reappeared for the second time, just as Draco was about to turn away. "And – don't do anything stupid," she said urgently. "Don't upset the Powers that Be. Or – just don't talk to anyone without me there, got it?"

She was gone before he could answer, intentionally leaving it at that and letting him know quite well that there was no room for his petulant objections. And Draco, disgruntled and very dissatisfied with the way she was treating him (as if he was some sort of walking blubbering halfwit that lived to botch everything up), turned back around and began to head back to his hut with a scowl fitted firmly on his face.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It was the shuffling of feet that prodded Draco from his stiff spot on the small cot. It wasn't an obvious sort of sound; rather quiet, more like a swift rustle or the hum of a slight breeze, but he'd seen the flickering shadows of motion striding past his hut and that had immediately sent the message to his brain that it was finally time for the ceremony. He brushed aside the animal hide, watching with curious eyes as the entire village headed past him, some looking particularly anxious. He noticed that the velvet shroud of night had fallen; the village was now only illuminated by small fires lit along the pathways and hundreds of dazzling, tiny lights in the trees that looked something like fairy lights. Then, suddenly, as a cool breeze brushed past him, he looked on in awe as the miniscule lights began to move, floating towards them, like lost stars caught in the wind.

They hovered in the dark sky for a moment, and Draco could see that some of them were, in fact, small fairies, but others were simply sparkflies. They swayed along with the wind's current and created faint jingling sounds from their laughter.

Just then, he felt a hand on his arm, pulling him along, and soon he found himself suddenly caught in the swarm of people, heading towards where they were going. He looked beside him, startled, and instantly recognized the petite person with the determined face and frizzy hair. He felt a strange gurgling in his heart.

"Granger," he barked at her, "I can walk perfectly fine by myself without your grappling, thanks," he said, snatching away his arm. "Honestly, do you really act like this around Potter and Weasley? Like their surrogate mother? No wonder you haven't been able to catch onto any action in that department," he muttered, and Hermione's brow twitched at his remark.

"Malfoy, do you often treat near-death survivors by harassing them?" she quipped sourly, but did not let him answer. "I told you that we're going to the ceremony. Now, I've been observing some of them, and I talked to the Chief advisor to see what our chances are, and apparently this tribe takes the unveiling of the full moon very seriously. Which is quite apt, if you think about it, because the Kismet Oak charms only relent on nights of full moons. Anyway, I think there's a bit of a leeway for us to get that information about the Death Eaters. He managed to slip up a little in our discussion… but we've still got to find out more about it after the ceremony."

He found it very hard to take her seriously. "And you're certain about this?"

Her brown eyes flickered up at him, her face radiant in the firelight. "Of course I am. We're here to save Harry, remember, Malfoy? I can't just sit in this village without doing anything to try and find out what they could possibly know." She looked worried now as her brow furrowed and she began to bite her lip. "I fear that our time is waning. We can't waste any more of it." She shot him a look. "So stop being such a prick, will you?"

"Oh, I'll try," said Draco dryly.

They were nearing a wide opening in the middle of the village. When they arrived they found themselves looking upon the tribes people sitting down with their knees to the floor in a never-ending, spiraling circle. In the middle was an empty space where an old woman sat, dressed in lilies and a white dress. She had a very graceful face, her eyes soft and gentle, with hair that shone silver in the firelight.

"Granger, if there are human sacrifices involved in this –"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," she told him, as they sat down in the back, but he could tell that the idea unnerved her a little as well.

Then, suddenly, the entire village became silent. It even seemed as if everyone had stopped breathing because everything seemed so still, until Draco felt an odd breeze kiss his skin, causing rippling shivers across his broad shoulders, and he heard the tinkling laughter of the fairies again. He looked up, heavenwards, but he could see nothing because the sky was so black.

"I think they do this to honor the arrival of the full moon," he heard Granger whisper to him.

They then began chanting some strange chorus in a different tongue, and Draco and Hermione stayed silent as this went on for some time. They gave each other looks, feeling very misplaced, but it was not long before the old man they'd met before was in the middle of the circle with the silver-haired woman.

"The phase has begun," he said aloud, his voice intense and deep, reverberating against the rustling leaves of the trees. Even the fairies scattered around when he spoke. "Her holiness has brought upon us this time again, the time when magic is at its strongest, and most importantly, love."

This caused both Draco and Hermione's brows to leap up their forehead.

"She smiles down on true love – blesses the village who is pure and true in love. For centuries we have succeeded in bringing true loves together and creating a peaceful village. She is grateful. She grants us the Festival of Luna, and protects us from evil outsiders." At this, Draco watched as the man's gaze fluidly moved to him and Draco felt his chest tighten. "She keeps her promise. This is a very holy week. We must pay our respects." He then said something in his native tongue, and everyone repeated after him with zeal and ardor while Hermione quickly looked at Draco from the corner of her eye.

The woman in the middle then began to open a box in her hands. They both watched in concentration as ten stunning white birds flew out, glowing an ethereal white that reminded Hermione precisely of the radiance of the moon. They flew around, circling the sky above them, beautiful and captivating. Hermione had never seen such birds before – she couldn't recall reading about such gorgeous and breathtaking animals. Then, suddenly the birds all collided into one another, resulting in a cosmic boom, or a supernova, but it certainly looked like a glittering collision of stars. White ashes silently rained upon them as a momentary, sacred light shone down on them, bathing them in its brightness before fading away. There were cheers and smiles from the people as they raised their hands in joy.

The people then began to get up, and music began to play – hollow drums, flutes, and harps. The fires thrived and the entire village lit up with life and festivities, mildly relieving Draco and Hermione, for they had not just witnessed a human sacrifice – or, for that matter, had not been forced to be participants.

Bodies rushed past them as Draco got up first, brushing himself off, before absentmindedly lending a hand to Hermione, who took it. They looked around, searching for the Chief's advisor for they both had the vivid recollection of him promising them that they would meet after the ceremony to discuss their situation. Finally, through a part in the dizzying crowd, they saw him waiting in front of a large tent, looking straight at them. He beckoned them with a wave of his hands.

Draco and Hermione started towards him, dodging the people rushing past the fires. When they reached the old man, he revealed the entrance gesturing for them to enter, and followed in afterward. Draco and Hermione found themselves standing before six people sitting around a small fire, precisely shaped into a circle, in which Draco only recognized two people: the boy Chief, who was displayed in his throne in the very front, and the medicine woman, who was sitting with crossed legs on the floor, eyeing them with an unpleasant disposition.

"Please sit down," said the Chief's advisor as he took his place beside the Chief, and they did as he said, sitting down on the warm ground beside each other. They earnestly looked towards the boy who was peering at them with narrowed eyes, trying to look – in Draco's ineffable opinion – tough.

"You," the boy suddenly said. "The girl. What is your name?"

Hermione was startled by the crisp tenor of his voice – and his impeccable English accent. "Me? I'm Hermione."

"Hermione," he repeated, looking at her. His face softened, and Draco rolled his eyes. "You have a pretty face."

Hermione uncharacteristically blushed.

"You said that you would talk to us about our situation?" Draco hastily cut in.

"Yes," said the old man. "These are the village elders. They decide every decision worth making. They are also very curious about your origin and mission. I have told them of your background, but they want to ask you a few questions themselves."

"And if we answer will you help us?" Draco asked.

"That decision has not yet been made," said one of the old men with a knowing grin. Something gold glinted from inside his mouth.

"Why are you so intent on finding Harry Potter?" asked the medicine woman.

"He-he ran away," Granger answered, a bit reluctantly. "To find the Death Eaters."

"And where exactly do you think he is?"

"We don't know," she replied ashamedly. "We came to these woods in search of the Death Eaters. We went to one of their hideouts, the cave," she said, and the elders all looked at each other, as if they were familiar with the place, "but they weren't there. We weren't able to direct ourselves successfully through the wood because of the illusionment charms."

"That is not a problem. We can help you there – we will guide you ourselves on the full moon. We can help you get out."

"Thank you. But we were also hoping…that you could tell us something about the Death Eaters."

They each stiffened. They then all began to talk out at once in obvious disagreement with Hermione's hope. "Impossible," one of them said, shaking his head. "That cannot be."

"We can only give out such secrets to those of our tribe," another one said. "We are sworn to secrecy. We are pacifists, you see. We remain neutral in the face of war. It is the only way our tribe can keep safe."

"Even if the Dark Lord finds some way to rule again?" Granger said, starting to heat up. "Please, there must be some way you could help us. We need to find the Death Eaters and Harry. This is very urgent."

They shook their heads again. "I'm afraid that that is impossible."

"But, please! Can't you understand what we're trying to do? If Harry is killed, then the Dark Lord –"

"We know very well what will happen if Harry Potter is killed," the medicine woman sharply interrupted her, a fierce look on her face. "We are familiar with the prophecy. But we cannot tell you. We can only tell those of our tribe, and you are not part of our tribe. You are an outsider – an outsider caught in the claws of war. We cannot trust you with it even if we wanted to. We are bound by law."

"But how exactly can one become part of your tribe?" she suddenly asked, her question rather febrific in tone and manner, and Draco looked at her in mild surprise. He could see the look on her face – desperation, hope, anxiety. He sighed. And all for Scarface Potter. He had never once doubted just how passionate Granger felt in saving her friend, for it certainly seemed as if she'd go through hell and back for him, but he discovered that a part of him was beginning to get a bit more irked by the idea than usual. He was never one for loyalty (even the Dark Lord could attest to that), and leave it up to fate to pair him up with the worst, Hermione Granger, who was practically the Loyalty Cheerleader.

But he could hear the rigid anticipation in her question, the way her glinting brown eyes were so steadfastly herded to the people in front of her. The air was tense around them now, the fire crackling before them, and from the looks on their faces and the terse silence in the air it was clear that the elders hadn't expected this question from her either. It was a moment before one of them finally responded, and it was the medicine woman again. But she was looking at her with a significantly different look in her sharp, eagle eyes now, as if she had finally found something in Hermione Granger to attribute some respect to.

The fire spit out a few glowing embers.

"You must be married by and into the tribe," she said calmly, her face stoic, the shadows shading in her stony cheekbones.

"_Married_?" Draco choked out, his head reeling.

"Yes, married," a man to his left confirmed. "Marriage is a very significant part of this tribe. It is the sacred vow in which all holy things must be done. Even when one is born into the tribe they must be reconfirmed."

"Married?" Hermione blinked, stunned by their answer. Undoubtedly, she was encountering some great difficulties in trying to believe them. She felt as if they were all playing some sort of trick on her, perhaps an inside joke that she knew nothing about, or the possibility that maybe they were complete pranksters. But as she looked at their deathly grave faces, each and all their attention turned to her; she felt her heart drop down to the scabby pit of her stomach. "You aren't kidding," she said halfheartedly. Suddenly she got the awful impression that she really wanted to cry. "Married," she said again, as if unable to fathom the word. It was a somewhat terrifying word, especially in the aspects of now. She felt horrendously pressed to do something; something that would amount to _some_ progress. They had been stopped over for too long for her to go out without a single bit of help, and she was willing to fight this – she could feel it.

Suddenly, she felt a sharp jolt along her arm as she looked up with an odd look in her eye. She did not spare a single look at Draco beside her before she quickly scrambled up to her feet, her hair flowing behind her in a tangled muss. There was a recklessness radiating from her now that slightly alarmed Draco.

"That's it, then? I'd just have to get married into the tribe?"

"Yes, in a sacred ceremony," they said.

"And then you'd be able to tell me?"

They nodded their heads.

"Good. All right, then," she said breathily, running a hand through her frizzled locks. "Thank you for all your help. I'll be seeing you soon." And then she turned around, hurriedly walking out of the tent. Draco, watching her, troubled, quickly stood up and launched after her without saying a single word of goodbye to the elders.

"Granger!" he called after her, feeling confused about what had just happened and the sudden erratic change in her behavior. He caught up to her and she turned to face him with a contemplative air about her. She appeared on the edge of something, fidgety, yet overwhelmed with ideas and thoughts. Her face was scrunched down with concentration.

"What in Merlin's bloody name is wrong with you?" he asked, because the look on her face was oddly twisting his stomach into uncomfortable knots. He had a feeling, an uncanny feeling, and there was a slight twinge in his mind… but he was determined on ignoring it. It couldn't be. Couldn't possibly.

She couldn't possibly be _that_ mad, could she?

"I don't know," she said inattentively, and it was clear that she wasn't even attempting to pay attention to Draco, which annoyed him. "I've just got to think this through. I'll just talk to you in the morning. I promise." And then she rushed off, leaving Draco with one last glimpse of her walking away into the darkness; her untamed wild curls bobbing after her quick strides.

In the trees surrounding them, he could hear the sound of the fairies' high-pitched laughing; it sounded like a million tiny bells.

Draco sighed heavily, watching after her, running his fingers through his hair. He swore out loud, but was still unable to ward away the bad feeling clustering up along the middle trench of his stomach, hinting to him that something vast was going to happen that he definitely wasn't going to like at all.

* * *

**Post-A/N:** I wonder what that could possibly be… hm… But while all you kittens try and figure that out (shouldn't be too hard, I think) I feel the surefire need to obligate you to review! So, for old times' sake, please review! 


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